Watering the Horse

Twenty-seven below, starkness before dawn;

I scrunch through snow toward an impassive shape

sacred in her night-long confessional.  A fine layer

of unmelted powder quilts the long hairs

that insulate her back.  I remove a glove and sew

my fingers beneath the fur, her skin comforting as toast.

Were I better equipped, perhaps bearing grain

she might condescend to snort, but I check only water.

She watches—should I stumble I would quickly stiffen

like these rails which keep my world at length,

words useless against the cold as wet flannel.

Here, she is composer writing on the vapor of her breath.