FOALS NEWLY WEANED are a gangle of bones. The one they sent scuffles around you in the loose box, left way, right, on the wood-shavings ground. Wooah, sweetheart. Wooah. Your hands on your hips. Her running wall to wall. She stops to your standing. On her halter a short beard of rope. Not for catching just now. She must stand to your stand with your back to her. You walk on. She will follow. Sniff. Follow. Back off. Sniff. Nudges your shoulder blades. Her dung ochre as her. Her own fart scares her. She nudges your elbow. She does not like aloneness. Her aloneness is yours to take. She does not like being free even in a stable so far from her birth night, leaderless, motherless, herdless now except for your single fame. Your fingers like udders she can lick though you only give dry—a handout of chaff. Your fingernails scratch like gentle teeth in the places horses chew-clean each other. Rump. Neck. Front of withers. Your hands on hips again until she steps up, up, up to your triangle elbow. You step. She steps. Her memory of a past is ending for this new confusion. Born a second time with you in her nose, whatever you are. Not known. An animal thing-you of action that moves like the front steps of her own.