It’s winter; the sun comes up late
and flat yellow, without warmth.
A dusting of snow will stay on this
tumbleweed prairie and my hands
will stay stiff in my gloves. I hear
him before he comes into sight.
This bay horse trots as effortlessly
as he breathes, a proud cadence,
each pair of feet, front and back,
landing with sharp unison. A crisp
clop, one-two rhythm, perpetual as a
metronome ticking a blunt back beat,
hooves to ground, steam to whiskers.
Holding me frozen in his sway this
bay horse moves with the icy glide
and flow of a skater covering the
crystal earth with slick precision,
never dreaming of another season.