<html aria-label="message body"><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div dir="auto" style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space; font-size: 22px;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Field</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">A horse’s field of vision, with both large eyes open,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">covers three hundred and fifty degrees. Only a little is missing.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">A few inches directly in front of the face, a sliver behind the tail.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes an era, a country, turns into a horse.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">A plunging forward. Its own stinging bee that it flees.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Denying future and past, trampling people as if they were pliable grasses.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Jane Hirshfield</span></div></body></html>