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Mud Season in Vermont

It's mud season here, and that makes me think of my grandfather, Emmannuel Trevorrow, and his good work horses, Chub and Sailor. This poem is from Hoofprints, available as an e-book from Open Road Integrated Media.

The car is
Up to the axles in mud.
It's nineteen forty-eight, most roads are paved,
But this is Vermont in April.
Mandy harnesses the team--
Chub and Sailor, the good farm horses,
Always well-behaved.
A child of eight can hitch them,
They see the car.
They lift themselves, they swell.
Their walk was slow and heavy.
Now they prance, the harness creaks and jingles.
Thus their forefathers entered the lists,
Carrying knights to a joust.
Mandy swings them around.
They're trampling,
lunging, blowing.
"Whoa, there! Whoa! Now stand!"
It takes the shouts. It takes his farmer's strength.
They're not afraid. It's pride,
Showing off before the beached machine.
"Hup." They surge and hit the collars.
Leather groans, their hooves dig in.
With a suck! amd snap! the car comes free.
Prrr! Prrr! The breath blows through their nostrils,
And Mandy says, No.
No, you can't pay me.
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