Above the forests,
Past tundra,
Upon cold ice,
We dance in secret there,
And decorate a merry May pole
With many hangman’s nooses.
And we sit on front porches in the dim light,
Talking about everything.
And beneath the ice and almost forgotten,
Our brothers and sisters still sleep,
Dazed and chained,
Unbooted and frozen,
Riding wild mustangs
And chasing the moon.
As we finally look up at our moon,
We start to remember our horses.
"Where is my horse?" somebody thinks to ask.
"Where is my horse?" she asks in increasing terror,
Her breath visible, swirling in icy wind.
"What horse?" I reply lazily.
I look up from an angel
I made in the snow.
"This horse, silly!"
Someone points at cold, thin air with a mitten
And grins.
"My horse is in the barn,"
A teenage girl swallows, "Isn’t it?"
"My barn is gone. It burned down,"
A scarved old woman still remembers.
A warm smile cannot hide
That the memory causes pain.
"And the horses never come back, never.
"They get away. You should know that."
Her eyes track the moon’s path,
But her feet rest solidly on the ice.
A woman cradling something long gone
Screams through tears, "Damn the horses!
"Where is my son? Where is my son?"
We all soon forget horses and join others,
Gathering around warm fire in a barrel and talking
About everything.
We raise empty barns, and drinking cold beer afterwards,
Smile in silent wonder at our works,
Standing on the ice,
Shivering regretfully,
And dreaming about lost horses.