wrangling

On foot today. 
The tops of the sage brush bushes are held under a neon light
which is held under the blanket of dawn.

A citrus color. 
Sage is the color of frost on grass in shade.
The horses are in the middle meadow breathing with their heads down.

Little leaves find their way between my fingers and roll around stripping themselves of their scent and falling behind me when I'm ready for a fresh one.
Spiced palms and fingertips.

An old trail.
My boots are ripped and follow the clearing that the horses make
which is clumsy and doesn't wind or flow or lead anywhere.

I’m not alone.
We make whoops and noises and noses rise and rock and slide and knicker and wander
to the corner of the pasture.

We close the gates.
Dust rises, they fight and play then settle.
The sun is up, the day commenced.