The moon gleams in its lesser glory
above the frosted branches of the cottonwood tree.
A slight crust on the ground
breaks beneath my feet
in this least light of morning.
My breath strokes its slight whisks in the air.
The horses raise their heads,
ears tilted toward me in anticipation
of ground grains mixed with dried molasses.
All that passes upon this earth
looks forward to its feeding,
bleats its pleadings into the wind
and sends itself toward whatever lies before.
I sift the feed into the buckets,
stroke the soft hair of the gelding’s neck
and then turn to getting out the hay
that they only eat
once the sweet is gone.
Our greater sustenance
is not always our favorite
but it is that
which carries us through our day.
On this day
I will savor both
and be grateful.