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.