Horses run in the cold rain, white-eyed in the white silence, a ruinous sweep among the gray cities on the plain, the black rocks of the shoreline, the vermilion and wild honey, she has music in her name, unknown languages among the ivy, a devouring rosebud blooming wild and fern-like in the cracked bricks, a presh quiet, the brushed steps where she sits, a regent whistler on a hay-colored twig, olive and canary yellow, the rattle of a terrified rattlesnake, fat grapes in a ravine, the cloudless air smells like cotton, a bird made of poison.