Vigil for a Winter Foal

By: Heather Hutcheson

I.

In the chill December darkness, we wait

for our shiny black mare to deliver a lanky

filly or a spindly colt, some limber specimen

bred to run, built tall, engineered agile.

We anticipate an athletic, living locomotive

to nearly spring from her round body.

II.

The four of us, shivering under starlight,

pretend amnesia about last year’s nights

of false labors, more than a week sleeping

outside the corral before we could name

the immense noiselessness inside her. “Still

birth,” mom whispered as dad quickly folded

the mass Into a tarp and headed into the trees

with a shovel, before we, his daughters, thought

to help. We, having already buried so many

loved creatures, understood the job was done.

III.

Tonight, an owl whooshes above the pasture

as we impatiently listen to the infinite

silence of the desert. On the edge of sleep,

about to hear the whispering stars, after

eleven months, at last, a colt hurtles

into the yard, the firmament’s brightest

star, illuminating the whole valley, lighting

something in us for the rest of our lives.

---

A professor of English in Sacramento, Heather Hutcheson is the founding editor of the Cosumnes River Journal. 

She spends most sum-mers teaching English in Oaxaca, Mexico. Please visit HeatherHutcheson.com for more information.