Poems by Doug Barrett
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Watchers
by Doug Barrett
From Canary Summer 2020
Doug lives in the Carson River watershed where the Great Basin sagebrush sea laps up against the Sierras.
Through willow mazes near impenetrable in noonday August heat
cuts the canoe, voyageurs seeking passage to the lake beyond.
Movement on the bank ahead. Back-paddle
and halt. What danger?
A horse's head appears, emerging to investigate the intruders
and then another, and another.
More horses, half-hidden, rest in a willow thicket
all of them wild.
Five sorrel mares walk out and quietly display themselves
curling upper lips in delight as they drink.
Five sorrel mares observe their observers—
how rare to see humans, and so close up!
Watching with sidelong horse sight, never all drinking at once,
the mares listen to the murmur of voices over water,
to the clunk of paddles against gunwales
to the slurp of paddles dipping, holding the canoe in place.
Connoisseurs, they catch the savor of sunscreen
worked into paddle handles, and the bouquet of human sweat.
How long will each group stay still and stare at the other?
Who has the most time to spare?
© Doug Barrett