Always those horses up on the hill, eachTo their own pasture, the higher groundTrued until one cannot see the other—How great the grass of no one else, the silenceOf four corners made clear. But resolute the windRattling each gate as if to open, as if the perfectGreen would go everywhereWithout sunken post or wire, while timeFinds its way: a latch breaks,Loosens into many parts, and one horse sets out,Nowhere to go but throughUs, where we gather, where we shiftBack and forth, where we practiceThe arc of resting neck on neck, breathOn breath, closing in to sleepWith one of us awake, watching the trees—That horse must come downTo where we lean and pivotTogether like a wheel into the cold hard rain—Our mouths full of the wild fieldAnd dirt, working the root, the past tenseInto the present. For out of the treadOf many hooves comes the more wondrous grassMade listening to each other through each night.