There is not a trace of green
to be seen in the one acre paddock to the north,
yet the horses still find something to chew on,
pawing away the thin cover of ice and snow
to get to the blades of brome
browned by the cold.
They move from one spot to another,
bite and snatch, nimble lips sorting
what is wanted from what is not.
They lift their heads and look around them,
stems sprouting from their mouths,
jutting out into the steam of their breath.
The wind ripples their manes
and bends the ends of their tails
toward the south,
long hairs tangled with the remnants
of the rain that came
just before the freezing,
mud matted to their shoulders.
This is not the time of green pastures
and shining coats,
yet there is something of beauty
in the way they stand together,
heads lifted above the fence,
ears tilted toward what I cannot see.
There is something about unity
that pleases even the heart of God.