I know this little piece I wrote isn’t even technically a poem, or maybe even prose, but the scene I describe is poetry in itself. I’ve based it mostly off my imagination. I had a vision in my mind for some time, and then all at once was furiously typing it out. When I saved it on a document, at first I wasn’t sure what to title it as. On a whim, not knowing what else to put down, I merely saved it under The Three. As you’ll see, it fits more than I realized then.

the three

Fog lies close to the ground.

A thrush clings to a weed, swinging precariously. It sings a few notes, then listens to the echo. Dew studs every blade of grass.

Crickets whisper.

Three figures dot the field. They work as one. Around them lies the furrowed ground, bare to the gray sky. In low tones, as if from far away, comes a word.

“Whoa.”

The horses stop. The darker shakes his black mane with a rattle of harness. The other shifts her weight and lets out a puff of breath. That is all.

The girl stands, one leg cocked, her arms leaning against the handles of the plow. She heaves just as the team does. Although it is in the cool of the morning, they had started before the sun woke and the sweat comes off them fast.

The girl lifts the reins from about her neck and walks to the horses’ noses. She brings her face near theirs and speaks very quietly to them. Their ears swivel to her low, rich voice and hear nothing else.

In slow, heavy strides she is back at the plow and takes up the reins again.

“Chirrup.”

Instantly the horses lean into the harness and the three are working together again.

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