Only the faintest light shows
in the pale pink streak
above the trees
along the low line of the creek
to the east.
The horses seem but shadows at first
as I near the pen,
then I see the white strip
of the mare’s face
and her stockinged feet.
Ice crystals glint on galvanized pipe
in the glow of the halogen light of the garage.
I dump feed into mounted buckets
for both horses,
then open the door into the barn.
In the subtle light,
I see the faint form of bales,
brome and timothy stacked for winter,
a store of harvest held for these hard months.
I lift a bale and turn toward the door,
knowing the paradox of the promise
that provision in this world is guaranteed
to those whose preoccupation
is not with such things.