by Beth Anstandig
Like my daughter said
as I held her
in the sharp air—
The moon is noisy.
And so is the muddy creek bed
with frogs and a mess of crickets.
We put our heads against our horse’s side
and rest our faces on his thick winter layer.
We listen to his lips
pull grass from the wet dirt.
The pine needles whistle above us,
then the wind in the horse’s tail
hums through it like a harp.
Each strand is a new note,
each note a new song,
and then an idea—
The wind,
a witness to our hearts,
always tells the truth—
There is sadness
but we can’t hear it yet.
Beth Anstandig holds an MFA in poetry from Arizona State University. Her work has appeared in Caesura, Clackamas Literary Review, Flint Hills Review, Yale Anglers’ Journal, Louisiana Literature, Phoenix New Times, and Hayden’s Ferry Review, among others. She is a licensed psychotherapist and founder of The Circle Up Experience.
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