Lyn Lifshin
The Horses at Night

The moon, a plate
of gauze tonight.
Too heavy, half
sinking into the
mist. Silver leaves,
the faintest stars.
Milkweed and
tumbleweed. Be-
fore black ice,
the still Vermont
roads, a cocoon,
wraps us past
willows and farm
houses and there,
in a field, the
horses half blend
into each other,
close as girls at
recess. Beautiful,
unsure in my car
lights, caught like
stars in a paparazzi
glare. I didn't want
to leave, stunned
until suddenly, as
if on cue, it began
to thunder and hail.
Then the horses
turned silver.