Horses sleep in the wind driven snow northwest
out of Fargo. Flocks of buntings come down in
swirls of flakes into fields of stalks. Night
appears an hour ahead this early March. Thick
flakes darken and slow. Slush forms on the horses'
backs. They shudder it free, steam, are cold once
more, stamp, let it build up. No colors now show.
Great heads droop toward drifts climbing up dark
hocks as silence ferries in its crystalline blow:

Out of Fargo, apart from you across a curve of
continent this season, seeing snow fall over
these of all the sleeping horses here between.