The hillside was blocked 
with pens, horses of other colors 

five or six to a pen, 
and one long fenced strip

from the base of the hill up, 
with dark brown horses flank to flank 

not moving, 
but their necks craning over

each other's backs. 
They were looking towards 

the dip at the top of the hill,
and the stream running through it.

They were looking at what 
was on the other side, 

which was my mother, 
whom I had just walked over the bridge.