The horses thought they were waiting for you
to bring them in from the pasture, in from damp

 

night air, where sweet alfalfa, oats, hay, would be,
where they always are—the horses names etched

 

in wooden plaques over their stalls: Comet, Midnight,
Scarlet, black iron latches securing them in, safely—

 

but they were waiting for you to make them whole
again, ache of yesterday’s memory—evolving from

 

mere shapes, nothing visible but their eyes, squinting
to see their way out of the dark to you, warm air

 

steaming from their nostrils, withers, hocks: trot,
then canter, like a drum coming out of the darkness—

 

weightless gallop, hooves suspended above ground,
offering of loyalty and service. But you’ve been waiting

 

too—for them to see you, to turn your mist into body—
witnesses to this fundamental bearing of your days.