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These two horses jump over this fence every night, while inside I wile away hours with you, laughing. Sometimes the moon spills on their backs, grown sweaty from running, rearing up and stomping the ground. Sometimes they remember being tied to posts. Sometimes their insides are like machines, every move mechanical. They have wild spotted ancestors, and spirit dancers to sing them home. Still we pick the plants, send smoke signals from one side of this small second to the other. I am using my mind like a camera, grabbing pictures, making a movie, muttering dialogues, scribbling it all out. Sometimes the fence is broken, my hands cold and I want to feed them, feel the steam shooting from flared nostrils as they pretend not to want the sugar in my pocket, the carrots and apples, I picked just for them. But I am still afraid of their hooves, their height. I am still small next to them, even though I am much older, much taller than when we stayed on that ranch in the mountains next to that deep lake of brilliant blue and green.
