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The Snow Mare

by N. Scott Momaday


In my dream, a blue mare loping,

Pewter on a porcelain field, away.

There are bursts of soft commotion

Where her hooves drive in the drifts,

And as dusk ebbs on the plane of night,

She shears the web of winter,

And on the far, blind side

She is no more. I behold nothing,

Where in the mare dissolves in memory,

Beyond the burden of being.