By Val Salazar
At the horizon, earth and sky reach a truce.
The hill darkens; the sun just down,
Not yet the complete black of Nevada night.
The flames of a hundred Asian poppies nodding red,
Barn swallows, tumble in the afterglow above the
Slow turning windmill.
There’s a soft whickering of a horse,
A saddle rubbed with oil,
A linnet pulls a tuft of cow hair snarled on
Barbed wire. The thread of hair shines red and gold,
In her beak. She flies into the last light.
(An assignment for school)
Sentences we were asked to write a poem from.
Not my words just my arrangement