at the barn

the horse in his stall
swatting flies
with his tail
and hoof
stamping at the saw
dust that covers
the square of his
room, and the one
eyed cat, tired
of chasing mice,
the queen, lying
in repose,
in the straight
line of sun
that arcs over the bending
trees, the water,
the flat scrub
brush lay of land.
each awaiting
someone, or something
to come soon.
a carrot, a brush
in hand, a bowl of  milk
with which to wet
her whiskers.
how are we so different.