He pulled on his boots and crossed that belt of dirt to the fenceline. The last part of dusk, a wan light from the horizon. Sound had taken the place of colour. His footsteps, cicada-noise everywhere. He reached for the sketched fence and heard one of the horses shifting in the dark, the shunt of breath. He knew the eyes of horses were made to gather light from any possible source and in the darkness could see more easily than his. Something his father had passed down as though in his blood. So the horses could see him there clearly, but to him they were only totems, their bodies humming with energy. He heard or felt one of the horses drawing closer, knowing which of them somehow by the personality of sound. He felt the roughness of the fence under his hands, knowing already what he would do. Pulled the latch back then walking in reverse dragged the old gate open, and the horses shifted again at the chime of the hinge dropping and the scrape of the wood in slow arc across the dirt. His wife watching from inside. The horses passing his body somehow like ships, and sailing.
