For hours, police tramped the already hardened dirt, too many
of them to be useful, pulled into labeled bags straw sodden

with blood, knelt and examined the corpse, rigor long upon it,
or stood murmuring in corners, workless, coffee clenched

in their hands. Even after they have gone, the barn cannot be
made tidy. In their stalls, the horses buck, refuse the morning

grain, will not be led to pasture. What they have seen will soon
enough be guessed—resolved—but not this scent, secret as cancer,

that drifts among the rafters and does not abate, seeps into
hooves, the crooks of legs, coats slick with fear, and waits.