Perfume of hay, lofted and forgotten in my forehead ,
encircles my wooden skeleton.
The memory of retreating footsteps,
clicking of a lock in once-open arms
taking away a lifetime of holding life,
joy of stomping hooves and pecking beaks
silenced by lonely howls of prairie wind.
Old cedar bones creak,
dust blows in with the draft and settles
among my joints.
Clomp of work boots replaced
by echo of cawing crows
darting back and forth with wings
and not the bare feet of children.
Once-wide eyes are shuttered
to once-teeming hills of green,
and I fear they now roll
into the horizon,
a brown hump forsaken by time.
Sun rises and sets still, with warmth
that cascades across weary shoulders.
Broad legs still bear
the empty weight.