Death and His Horses
by Beth Winegarner

I don't remember the snow falling this evenly when I was a child.
Back then, it seemed all thick drifts and crevasses to dig my hands in.
Now, it's a pale blanket that swaddles my horses' legs.

(No, they are not white; I had borrowed one
the day the apostle took down the details.)

I keep roans and dapple-grays, nothing special.
I like the way their colors flash against
the plains, green in spring, tan in autumn, ice-white in winter.

I live for every stubborn stamp of their hooves,
the swish when they toss their manes.
Most of them I never ride, only keep them fed and watch them roam.

In this season, they stand so still
the snow piles on their haunches and dusts their tails.
they brace together for warmth
and sigh in sudden, steamy plumes.
They eye me resentfully, even at dusk when I lead them into the stables.

The grace of each day slips from their animal minds once it passes.
They forget the green season: new grass crushed between their jaws, sweet spit.
They forget estrus: animal need to regenerate.
They forget what it is to run for joy; in the cold, they only run for terror.

When night comes, I lead them to bed,
Where the straw is soft and ready for their bodies.
 

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