The world is leaking, and all the olive-shouldered
bison muster are grunts into the wheatgrass.
Haunches flinch in crystal sweat. Wild horses
raise their heads as if—could they?—remember
the crack. What’s behind comes through, there—blue trembles,
then recedes to make way for flags, such flags!
Muddy orange, fuschia, seafoam green,
and peach in thick streaks—each spreads, touches
folds into another, and another.
Heralds all. Glorious, yet not the glory.
Crimson bleeds, pushes, pinches. All darkens
—but the buttes! Oblivious, they are lit
like lampshades, as if it’s midday, no eyes
nor ears nor heart to find the change. They shield
the dull beasts in their strange glow. The whinnying
ones walk into the rush of colors, and night’s breath
upon them, in them; galaxies drain in rich
lights. Light upon light. Something stirs. Beasts, look!
Kathleen Robinson is a freelance writer, editor and tutor living in Washington D.C. Her writing has appeared in Verily, Ethika Politika, Fare Forward, and Philanthropy Daily. She might finish her fairy tale novel before midnight.