Always those horses up on the hill, each
To their own pasture, the higher ground

Trued until one cannot see the other—
How great the grass of no one else, the silence

Of four corners made clear. But resolute the wind
Rattling each gate as if to open, as if the perfect

Green would go everywhere
Without sunken post or wire, while time

Finds its way: a latch breaks,
Loosens into many parts, and one horse sets out,

Nowhere to go but through
Us, where we gather, where we shift

Back and forth, where we practice
The arc of resting neck on neck, breath

On breath, closing in to sleep
With one of us awake, watching the trees—

That horse must come down
To where we lean and pivot

Together like a wheel into the cold hard rain—
Our mouths full of the wild field

And dirt, working the root, the past tense
Into the present. For out of the tread

Of many hooves comes the more wondrous grass
Made listening to each other through each night.