Dozens of them had walked through the snow.
They wanted to come but I told them to go.
I told them I had other plans that night,
So they shook their straw heads and took off in flight.
The dark of the stable had blinded me,
As the noises began from behind me.
The scratches and thuds became louder,
And the ink had bled through my powder,
And the blankets constricting my night gown.
Dozens of them had walked back through the snow
And decided they might as well stay anyway.
As they walked in through the front door,
The ink had spilled out of them and onto the floor.