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.

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