Stillness

Without Witness

Before the sun lifts itself over the ridge
she is standing in the hush of light.

The foal sleeps in the narrow shade
her body makes, a brief mercy.

When he rises she lowers her head
touches his shoulder — then
turns again to the day’s work.

Something stirs along the ridge
and she steps between,
an old instinct
needing no witness.

By afternoon he wanders,
testing the distance that will one day
undo them both.

She grazes,
looks up,
grazes again —
the old rhythm, the old vow.

At dusk the band begins to move,
shadows lengthening.

She waits until he finds her,
until he remembers the shape of safety.

Then they go.

© John Mack 2026