Sometimes I remember the horse I never had,
her flanks twitching under flies in our summer barn.
I know enough about her ways to know
the long drink at the trough before we set out,
the head jerking up and down at first, then slipping
calmly into harness and bit. I’m riding
bareback out of the yard, past the machine shed,
past my mother’s tomatoes and squash,
chickens running right and left until the dog
snarls them back. After the last corral
we’re running away for good, across yellow
acres my father saves for cattle and antelope,
for walks early November under
the deepest constellation, the northern lights
surging our way just over the horizon,
coming this very night, he is sure,
if we can stay up late enough. We’re running
away to the lightning-black oak
on the knuckle of a hill, stepping around
hidden bunches of cactus, the badger den,
the tipi ring from the beginning of the world,
the bedrock carved with pictures. When I lean
against the trunk, my horse pulls at wheatgrass,
and I tell her every name I know for love. One
of her eyes watches the grass. One of her brown eyes
contains me, the tree, all of the land behind.
Sometimes I remember our amble home
through the deep fields and dark, my ear to her mane,
my arms around her, the two of us
a black moving crescent under the moon.
Sometimes we stop at the creek for her to drink.
Sometimes we do not return until after midnight,
the other animals barely stirring
under their roofs, each animal secret
safe for now, the reading light in the window
left on like an idea to hold in the hand
until I reach my bed, like every light
a man high in the sleeping plane sees, glancing
down, crossing my country in silence.
