The soft, snow-fattened hills passing
as a wraparound background, not so much simile
as another way to say
I’ve been here before.
Cows, field-boundary fence, highway
grave markers. Netflix and Prime half emptied
the parishes. Shuttered arena snack bars—kids play
hockey in the towns now.
I get out of the car and lean at a fence to catch
my breath; it isn’t to be caught. I look at the horse, white
in the white field. I look square at him.
We’re both here, it’s dusk, my heart beats too
fast. His eyes are big glass balls of dim
light and snow. He has nothing
for me. A brown horse trots away
from a barn, startles me, presses
a large calm face to the fence boards. They see I have nothing
for them and move along. Snow falls, the hoof-pocked snow,
snowed upon and snowed upon
again, silently. You wouldn’t know it at all, really,
until the following day.
