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The Harras’ Surveyance /// New Fiction by Joel Hans

Knock in the night: a rancher saying his horses had broken free of their stalls and bolted into the moonlight. Formed a harras toward the horizon.

     You know what called ‘em all up like that in dead of the night, don’t you? the rancher asks. Don’t you know what place or god they might’ve got set on their minds?




     With every careening sun, more horses join the harras. Together they scramble down anticlines of crimson shale, set in new erosions, send pebbles skittering. They unravel every landscape.




     A mile-wide harras sleeps standing and dense, moonlit skeletons delineated into groups of faded color—auburn against the bone white against the mottled—not unlike a body: of water or of living.

     When he steps close, they scatter, and so the veterinarian waits—let it open its skin or its coastlines, then, to he who asks the quietest.




     In a time before, the veterinarian saw miseries, differentiated diagnoses. He became a killer before he became a healer.

     Azoturia for the overworked and underfed, muscles locked in spasm. Laminitis: hooves hot to the touch. Abscessed channels in need of being cleansed from the puncture of sharpened rocks. Navicular disease and its telltale lameness. Mud fever and colic and mange and bog spavin.

     And with each, a moment of waiting—perhaps this one will offer thanks on its prehensile lips.

     He worked years in wait of the perhaps.




     Hoofsteps like a heartbeat. The veterinarian presses himself against the desert as though it is a stethoscope carrying an answer to a question he never thought to ask.




     Dark mane long and braided in mud like thin ropes of bloodied muscle. A horse fallen as the harras moves on. With his palm on the leg’s chestnut callosity the veterinarian works the stifle, feels swollen warmth and hears crepitus in bones grinding.

     Before, there were blinders of his own: not a life but a catalog of symptoms. Now, he tries to read from an eye held open. A syringe, a slowing heartbeat. An eye held open as if to say: Look at us. Look at what we are. Look at what we are to you. Look at the difference.




     A horse’s eyes: deepcolored lodestones that refuse to blink out, even in death. Once the veterinarian believed it’s because the burdened long have and forever will see the collective dark of their human companions and are in want of an excuse to be blinded.

     Here, in this harras, he’s no longer so sure.




     The veterinarian lingers closer to the harras. Sleeps in the mud just beyond its borders. Clutches, attaches. The harras surveys from a distance, dark orbits of their eyes deep and reflective as a night’s sky, as burden, as all corralled futures, as if all saying, And even now you think you hold in your hands and in your heart the answer to everything?




     The veterinarian asks the landscape, the ever-shifting spine of this revolt: What kind of myth or life is made of horses for cartilage, of horses for keratin, of horses for vitreous humor, of horses for the muscled walls of a heart’s thumping ventricles?

     The harras kicks into the air dustclouds so wide they form weather systems. As the veterinarian follows from the east, he is flooded in thunderstorms that drop globules of mud for hours.




     In his pursuit, the veterinarian finds a lame horse fallen and trampled by the harras, tongue extended like a dipstick in blood.

     Its dark eye a warning, a plea. A horse’s eyes, largest on landfall: like all biologies, he thinks, there must be reason. As in the shape of their bones, which gives them the curse of capacity.

     He tries to speak in touch: pain will soon be stripped away by moonlight, all burdens relinquished. Quiet calm extends into the coming unday.





     In the desert night, new moon unshining, a whinnying. The veterinarian rises and moves toward the harras and on its fringes, in the bluestem, he finds a mare in labor. He cups her head with his hands and she sighs as if to say she is a broken kind of tired.




     Come pale dawn light the foal is birthed after the veterinarian takes its hooves in his hands. He is doused in a sea of birthing, sweetsmell of amnii in the back of his throat. A rising sun forces the harras to squint or twist their great heads westward.

     The harras’ firstborn opens its eyes for the first time. It watches him, orbs like a pair of black holes—the veterinarian wants only to step inside.




     The foal takes long to stand. What should take minutes lasts hours.

     As night falls, he steps forward and with his hands helps teach the foal the particular language of walking.

     And when it finally learns, it slips from him and into the harras, each body dark like a cave’s narrow-mouth opening into undiscovered communes that still cannot say thanks in any language he can hear.




     His bones are frozen in the desert night and he falls to his knees and claps down his hands to stamp his prints among the crescents of the harras’ passing like a million small moons.

     The veterinarian is alone against their eyes: a thousand thousand judgments. Eyes not in want of an excuse to be blinded but in want of another that might learn to see.

     The harras holds, watches, waits.




     The veterinarian prays—if there is anything to be said, kick into the sand or bleed in particular patterns or speak in ways more ancient than this skirmish for an answer in wind brushing the grasses.

     The harras steps toward him. He climbs onto its whole back, spine arcing long as his eye can see.

Joel Hans lives and writes in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in Redivider, Nashville Review, Necessary Fiction, No Tokens and others. He is currently working on a novel about algorithms, epitaphs, and final thoughts.

Elegy for Matt || Sean Patrick Hill

Elegy for Matt




The body is


is therefore





channels tides


the sluice and slough


of desire


of that which wishes to be

carried on

passed on

not remarked upon


it glides


guides the hand into each

other’s hands


we are passed this way

and live

this way onward


The body

comes down from hills


the creek which

carries its own



and road


it is always on roads

we find ourselves


always on roads we find

ourselves dying


Look how many dead

each day

lie in our roads


I say in not on

as road is our river now


like leaves


in the undercarriage



you may have crossed

the bend

or glanced at the shoulder


you will die


or did


as Matt did passing

a place

made emblem



made whole now we shall go


and keeping close

this knowledge


might lay our flowers


at the foot of the hill

might bow there

as this is the place where one is thrown

from the body

or a star





exploded outwards

we can see this





hearing the long hiss


under tires


listen close

leaves under axle



incredibly you followed

the path

of a glacier


pulling back the land as one


a blanket to the chin


night truly sets

its foot


at your throat


You might hear

as I have

camped in the evening beside a river


of fishermen

in the willows


and gone to find them found



there is only river now


you find

it was always river talking

to itself


I found in my mind

a gravity



a grief

moving forward to the glaciated


creek murmur

highway sigh


and imagined flowers there


imagined I would go


to where Matt was born

and died

which is to say born

in me

now that he has awakened


and opened

my eyes


which must be why we leave


among the alluvium



day’s eyes


bits of broken


along the shoulder





Sean Patrick Hill is the author of the chapbook Hibernaculum (Slash Pine Press, 2013), as well as two full full-length books of poems, Interstitial and The Imagined Field. He is the editor and curator of Green Fuse Press in Louisville, Kentucky.