In April the senior boys suddenly calm
like horses nodding quietly in their pen
in no hurry now that the latch will shortly lift.

They munch grass, lift their corded necks
to let the breeze sift their manes.
Their heads protrude from the windows

of passing trailers, seeming bored,
but in truth, waiting for the next chance
to lay their ears flat in a gallop.

But the fence, the fence, the fence:
we all – they, too – need that rigid
wooden thing to strain against.