Did you get the kids to school? my ghost-horse-mind wants to know.

The backpack zipper snagged again, I say.

Did you take the path above the sandstone silt? asks the ghost-horse,

Were you careful through the pocked dust-field, demands the ghost.

I can’t remember how it was before the galloping, I reply.

Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts! says the horse-mind.

I can’t remember how it was before mothering.

(The slide-latch stall door opens.)

(The winter sun is in the field, reds and pinks vein through the trees.)

(Nothing hides in the brush, sharpening its teeth.)

Rebecca, says the ghost-mind, Swing your neck around. Look at me.