Gray branches
and a sodden sky.
Along the route
where the horses from the Christmas Parade
returned to the county fairgrounds,
I spied, near the gutter,
a child’s, bright pink, plastic clog.
The grass around it was worn out,
waiting to be tucked under a cold, white blanket.
The earlier cold rain,
not having dampened the enthusiasm
of the riders
and of the watchers
of snuffling horses,
still trickled along the curb.
The horses had faithfully done their part
to again bring us closer to Christmas
and were by now warm and dry.
And the spirit of that child
waved once more
as I turned toward home.
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