Three Old Horses

Returning to the gate at close of day
the horses walk together all the way,
one is a solemn roan, the others gray.

I watch their feet plunge softly in the snow
giving a plain account of where they go
but not revealing much of what they know.

The three of them are winter owners here
though who sold out to them is still not clear,
there’s a farmer back behind it all, I fear.

They spend their day in nosing over some
problem beneath the snow, at dusk they come
as all do on a winter’s eve, toward home.

They nuzzle at my sleeve and kiss my face,
and feel that they have said with this embrace
we welcome you to your accustomed place.

We walk together through the open gate
in quickstep for the early dark seems late
to those who know where food and shelter wait.

Heads deep in hay they soberly concur:
all grass is flesh, and nod as if it were
a truth with which I could make quite a stir.

And so in peace within their stoic shed
they let me choose at will what I am fed,
and while I watch the night they sleep instead.