symphonic sunset fills the sky, trills roll over emerald hills, and
grace notes take the shape of horses ornamenting pastures. this
place knows how to pluck a string, play a song that is
sweeter than any southern mamaw’s tea. the
spring foals scamper, awakened to wonder
by a drum whose beat they’ve always known, one that’s
pulsed in their blood since before birth, keeping
time to the rhythms of hoof and heart. now the
mares’ swished tails percuss blue dusk, and stars
grow bright to sing the night, voices semitones apart.

This is a golden shovel, written using a line from [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by e.e. cummings.