Above the forests,
Past the tundra,
Upon cold ice,
We dance alone there,
And decorate a merry May pole
With many colors of hangman’s nooses.
And we sit on front porches in the dim light,
Talking about everything.
The warmth of neon makes our faces and eyes glow.
And just beneath the ice, our brothers and sisters are sleeping,
Dazed and chained,
Unbooted and frozen, riding wild mustangs.
Looking up at the moon,
We start to remember our horses.
"Where is your horse?" somebody thinks to ask,
Her breath visible swirling in icy wind.
"What horse?" I reply.
I look up from an angel
I made in the snow.
"This horse, silly."
Someone points at thin, cold air.
"My horse is in the barn,"
A teenage girl replies.
"My barn is gone. It burned down,"
An old woman still remembers,
Her warm smile shows the memory causes pain.
A woman cradling something long gone
Screams through tears, "Damn the horses!"
But we all quickly forget horses and join others,
Gathering around warm fire in a barrel and sing songs,
Raising barns and drinking cold beer afterwards,
Standing and smiling in silent wonder at our works,
Standing on the ice,
Shivering regretfully
And dreaming about our lost horses.