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back ELISABETH MURAWSKI

The Barn

No thoughts of bats
in the eaves,

or snakes
seeking a space

to circle in. Webs
we brushed against

did not chill. We were
close to the earth still

as we jumped, squealing,
from the loft, landed

softly on the hay.
The barn was alive

with dust motes.
We could hear calves and foals

moving in their stalls.
We could hear the mothers.

What a comfort
to know they were waiting,

rustling in the straw
while we flew.  

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   Contributor’s notes

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