Bolts out of the tunnel—
her expression crossed
between danger and delight, her black
hat, habit, and jodhpurs
stark against the muted gray-white of the bay
stallion plunging down the horse path;   
the trees along the reservoir
crouched and whispering
amidst the wind-blown cinders and leaf-particles—
even if we were planted here together
we can still converse;

the sun gone off behind the stacks of cirrus,
and winds converging, churning up
the placid surface, the small waves,
like hands steepled in prayer,
racing across this concrete basin
as if there were a way out or beyond
these toy versions of the swells
that off the Maine coast lob an outboard
back and forth; where sailors, in the instant
before they go under
glimpse the mundane horror of a wave
rearing like a clogged filter...;

but even now, as fold on fold of cloud
dims the metallic prisms
of the chain-link-fence I lean against,
the bay surges through again, his neck
stretched further out than before,
as she lets go of the reins and leans far—
far forward to grip his mane.