It's cold out: the kind of cold that bites to the bone and burns in your throat. Makes your teeth ache. There's frost on the grass, rhinestones in the velvet of the sky, a ring around the moon. A dog howls. An owl calls. It smells like smoke. Like wet earth. Like hay. Frost on the gate, sharp against my palm. The chain hits the fence. A whicker; AB sounds like a French cartoon villain. She's Canadian after all. Markus is black on black on black, a deeper darkness against the night. Flashlight. Crunch of carrots. Hay working into the cuffs of my jacket. Winter coats, soft and dusty. Quiet. So quiet. The world's asleep save them, and me, and the things with shiny eyes slinking through the leaves. Goodnight, horses. Until tomorrow.