All morning long the gray and the brown
lower their tapered heads, nibble
grass covered in mud from a recent rain.
It is warm for winter, but horses know
nothing of seasons save the sun
is a weightless rider and needs no saddle.
Come noon, they canter around the field
in tandem, carrying
nothing but light. Then they halt
like a horse and its shadow, motionless
as Paleolithic paintings in a cave —
a moment so fleeting and perfect, clouds
form in the shape of horses, gallop across
the sky in homage.
—Terri Kirby Erickson
