The Meadow 125 Through the Window Kimberly Ann Priest The boy shadows her, his five-foot-seven frame several inches taller, and his shoulders, wider—even his smile grows larger than hers on his face. She is womanly, and not. She is powerful and not. She grew quickly into her withers and mane until she became one of her father’s horses owning the barnyard so completely they don’t even need to make the ground quake. But they do, sometimes. Through the window I watch them accelerate, pound the field, shimmy with adolescence. Like my daughter with her headphones on: shake, shake, shake—free as she can be in a bathrobe before she gives a damn about her hair, her hips, her face.
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