In the back field

a once proud horse

now shelters beside a hollow tree,

knows her time has come.

Just the word bullet

is enough to alter the eye,

the mouth, the stance.

The horse is not mine.

The field is not mine,

but my hand holds the gun.

The horse shakes rain

from her ears, looks at me

with the resignation 

of a bill past due, too large

to be settled.

One day it will be my turn

and I know it is not a whole life

that I’ll think of,

just the taste of summer,

fresh tomatoes

and the juice on the cutting board.