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of the foaling men
kneeling in golden
straw, his mare’s
mid section heaving.
La Ville Rouge’s
coat glistening with
sweat. I think of her
eyes rolling, her
groans and the men
each taking a foot,
the mare’s nostrils
flaring. Night, a wind
of straw, manure,
sweat, dust, urine and
the night’s cool air.
How they must have
wondered at the bay
colt’s size as Barbaro’s
wet and bloody head,
shoulders, torso and
black legs slid from
the mare. Down the
road, a truck backfires.
Flat on her side, La
Ville Rouge lifts her
head, looks at her new
born colt sprawled on
the soaked straw,
eyes blinking, a scoop
of vanilla ice cream on
his forehead. I imagine
La Ville Rouge
struggling to her feet,
neighing softly to her
baby and licking him,
how Barbaro tries to
stand up, spills, his legs
rubbery, falling back into
the straw until suddenly
he stands, swaying like
a willow, takes a step,
jerky, hardly graceful
but the starting point for
an unknown journey
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