Winter Tenor

Ducks in a daze with mourning doves—
Sweetness of the hay fresh mown, the clouds
Slowly stacking, the constant
Revectoring of flocks among weeds,
A dampness to northern aspects of fields
Slanting toward the river, workmen
Silent, workwomen finding shade, what remains
Of harvest not mattering as one thing bears down
Upon the other—some wind in ornamental trees,
The waxy mane of the whitest mare, whitest
From the oncoming weather-light, the foal
That does not shy from the hand that gelded it.