I stood by the dark barn and called
and called to her by name,
into the labyrinth of stalls
and webs and smells, where I could see
nothing in the bent light. And when she came
she came bowing to me
out of the darkness,
bending her neck through the half-gate
to test my purposes:
winter-rugged, high-cared, calm
and skeptical of gifts. Her breath
spread its fur across my palm
as I offered it, the ball of her nose
worked nimble as fingers: she picked
at the oats
I held out scrupulously,
as though they might be attached
to my skin in some secret human way
she couldn’t see. When they were gone,
as evenly as she’d come
she turned
and walked off into the barn
and left me watching. So I never learned
more than she’d offered:
whether she was sheltering
a coldwater foal, putting herself
between me and the breathing
fact, unused to the December air