MUD SEASON

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Last time we lost a horseshoe, a friend and I spent hours 

walking the fields, toeing grass, searching deep mud.

It was dark, the moon covered. Behind us,

barnlight caught on the ground like a hundred half-moons

made of iron, and the horses slept in their stalls.

 

We tried again in daylight—I lied to myself 

and I lied to her when I said I believed 

we could find it. It was mud season, and the mud

was sucking. We never found it, nor the nails 

that had let it go.

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BIO:

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Morgan Hamill is a graduate fellow at Penn State-University Park. Her poems have appeared in Cimarron Review, The Georgia Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, and elsewhere.

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