To continue

There's a murder of cows,
a herd of crows
resting in the sweet of a chestnut tree.
It's all or nothing.
I take her into the mire
and we come out cleaner,
make a pack-horse of the spine of me
by a gate,
she climbs a stone wall,
minds the barbing -
the pooling is too deep,
soil too swamped
for her tiny feet,
the ground a slick hazard,
made for riding,
we all have someone
willing to handle a hazard
to save our tenderest face.