What is this white? Your chesnut mare is asking.
You pat her flank once reassuringly,
smooth her saddle blanket, saddle her and mount her, take her through the gate.
Silence takes the pipe corrals that
whistled last September in the wind.
Your thighs, your knees, they guide her.
The two of you, like old familiar lovers
discern the trail from rocky flats by feel.
You ride past frosty fence posts
and live oaks, prickly branches
bent beneath the weight.
Still air. No hawk in sight.
Not a cry from a magpie.
Not one track
to mar this new, new white.
C 2015 Mary A. Schultz, All rights reserved