Horseplay

From a lapse of cloud emerges a mare nibbling her own shadow. For all I'm worth I draw her out as birds draw the sun up in their seine of song. Its blush cannot render her the lovelier, nor time's delible signature, as my own. Only a thread of ink, raveled from a broken feather, the silken gesture of a claw, tamed to ride and ride through the anthem of her name. Yes: I fell from grace: in less than a whimper to the part in her mane—in my head its fresh crush lingers' across the rivalry of winds I've begun to vanish in, beginning with my hair. But she's all the more there, freckled on the stippled hill, bent ankle tipping her hoof on edge, as dancers idling will.