In the tenderness of morning, the fog
wraps the horses in promise and paints
the yellow blanket soft. The horses
speak their quiet, feel their Spring,
dance their velvet noses in flowered field.
Silent are the pines, watching
through dew drop eyes, hanging
their needled peace in the foggy morning.
Early morning hoof prints mark time,
yellow daybreak, flowery fog of pineful watch,
and I am silent with wonder.
The spotted pony bears out
winter with thickened coat and rugged
resolve by the edges of the worn field
where the bitter wind blows less harsh.
His grayish hooves solidly clap frozen
ground as he grazes on what’s left of autumn’s
golden grass. Midday sun streams through breaks
in the pines, blessing his shaggy, rugged body.
He stops to rest in winter’s calm, so few
are those days. When storms pass
through, spotted pony waits them out with tail
turned toward the wind and head hung low.
Pine branches reach down, giant
arms of protection. Like the hill
and the rocks and the pines, he belongs
to this place. The spotted pony bears out winter.
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Talking to the Clouds 