Last night I saw him again, the ghost horse.

In the shade of the moon

I almost walked without notice nearby

but chalked beneath my foot a sign

stand here

alerted.  He took shape

slowly; a curved hoof,

a foreleg suggesting power.

And through his middle some words I could not read

rode him.

We wheeled from Santa Fe

gently into snow.  Trembling,

I read my hands.

By the roadside the horse turned.  I turned

to tell you.

Absent as a watercolor, he blinked

and was gone.