Rachel at Nine

Rachel runs, slim as celery, down a country road. AT nine she doesn't need to look to either side knowing this place from the inside, like a petal knows of sun and earth and stem. She stops in flight to snatch at honeysuckel, hummingbird on boucing toes, Then flies to the bend ahead and dips beneath a fence, arms outstretched thin as wooden spoons, to gather grass. The sleek horses come, ribboned in braids of burr to take the green gift strecthed between her upraised hands and quickly, while they chew her small hand darts to a warm dark head for the miracle of touch. She smiles back at me, sister to any sun the turns again to run.