Fence wires hold ends of three horse hairs
from the tail of old Paulo in the meadow.
He grazes, bends, noses the green,
white neck tender and taut as a bow-stroke
of horse tail on a cello.
An old mowing machine disagrees
with itself in the hayfield.
The farmer tends the coughs and roars, the stalls.
He hums, cuts hay and rolls it through dusk,
cools it in damp mounds.
Crickets, you are newcomers in softening grass.
The songs you rub, legs like hairs,
into the night air repeat repeat.
Paulo blinks through the barn window.
He sleeps lightly. The farmer listens.