The grey mare opens a wound in Buster's shoulder. Beneath
       the crescent-shape, softness emerges. The old gelding
                                   branded, quivers. I rub
                                 his neck. Silver nitrate
                             cauterizes the convex
                           edges. Over the landscape
                         he sees the mare -- disdained.
                      Against his nape, my head rests,                          "It'll be all right," my words
                    drop as the vet caresses 
                  a permanent scar. I touch
                his muzzle. The crook'd needle
            crosses his torn flesh. His hoof scrapes
        a pattern like a crucible light sharpens 
     his edge, & stomps the sage hens into flight.