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.