Yellowjackets

When the plowblade struck 
An old stump hiding under 
The soil like a beggar’s 
Rotten tooth, they swarmed up 
& Mister Jackson left the plow 
Wedged like a whaler’s harpoon. 
The horse was midnight 
Against dusk, tethered to somebody’s 
Pocketwatch.  He shivered, but not 
The way women shook their heads 
Before mirrors at the five 
& dime—a deeper connection 
To the low field’s evening star. 
He stood there, in tracechains, 
Lathered in froth, just 
Stopped by a great, goofy 
Calmness.  He whinnied 
Once, & then the whole 
Beautiful, blue-black sky 
Fell on his back.