They’re Saying Now That Feathers Are Mostly Light, That Wings Are Mostly Not There

But sometimes it’s warm enough for the neighbor 

to stand in the field


and brush out her horse’s tail. She knows the sun

slips through it.


The horse is two-toned, losing a winter coat, the day

also a world


slipping through its own hands. Dusk will lead them

out to a road


that leads out of town, and she’ll teach it how to walk this way,

through shadow.

Jill Osier’s recent work appears in Pleiades, the Southern Review, Southern Indiana Review, and West Branch. Her poem in The Georgia Review is part of a forthcoming chapbook, From.