Something beyond the tree line bares its teeth,
shakes snow from its fur. The ghost-white

January sky sits above us, brooding.
We are about to mount horses, about to feel

their pulse up close—steady thrum in their necks. 
I see my fingertips, I search for yours.

Turkey vultures seem to gather in judgment,
sky steeped in wingspans. A few descend

to the dry, knuckled branch directly above us;
clasping and unclasping with their feet,

some with their beaks open. I once ducked
in the backseat of a taxi, no one could see me.

I was convinced I could disappear. We proceed
up the uneven hill. Our guide speaks of the creek

flooding in summer, saplings uprooted and dragged
with the fugitive current. A layer of ice sits

on the surface now, no telling how thin it is.
We don’t look at each other. It seems

the sash of pasture woven between these hills
can hold entire herds of horses while this day

can barely hold its cold, its tidy loss of fire.