A few long streaks, mostly pink,
stretch south to north,
low in the eastern sky,
brightening as they near the horizon.
The backdrop fades into the palest blue
just where the earth
closes the view of the heavens.
As I walk along the dark ground,
the mare comes to feed at the black tub.
I rub my hand along the winter wool
of her spine.
She is wearing a crown of sorts,
a frosted fringe just below
where tail joins body,
hairs the length of my finger
almost glowing in this low light.
She drops her head to the trough
and I walk away,
rocking an empty bucket,
each of us to the next of our day,
blessed already by its beginning.