Half-in half-out, she stands with her white horse

at the barn door, bolts jutting cold on the cross-planks.

Dwarfed in a man’s work glove, her hand holds close the lead.

Ears back, the horse is wary, sensing the chill, sensing

her. Buttoned into black wool, shawl collar

drawn to ears, knit cap to brow, she is face

made triangle by the dark: her sharp nose,

mouth a slit, eyes casting doubt at progress

a century ago. Left behind—

mice, white breath, braying, huffed oats