HAIBUN: Curry Comb

 
Curry Comb

The stall is scented with roan flesh and twilight,
dust rising in veils as I work down his girth.

The old gelding shifts weight and leans
into the rhythm. Beneath my hand, ribs press 

outward—every year mapped in bone, in hollow.
His breath comes deep and steady, warm on my shoulder.

        evening breeze . . .
        a tuft of hair drifts
        into autumn


haikuKATHA #41, March 2025