Mist
Darkness of predawn,
Mist hanging in the air,
Walking through hay field,
Eyes adjusting to ghostly light.
Railyard lit up two miles away,
Glowing in the yellow lights,
Crickets fill the silent places,
Horses nowhere to be seen.
Hearing accentuated,
Shoes moistened,
Socks damp,
Molly happy in cool darkness.
About the Author: Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.
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