The meadow dims, the daylight fades,
shadows stretch in softened braids.
My mare moves quiet, black as night,
her ears like lanterns framing light.

Wildflowers fold their painted heads,
softly dreaming in grassy beds.
Their colors hush, their petals close,
a twilight prayer each blossom knows.

I watch them bow through velvet air,
the world made still atop my mare.
A gentle breeze, the sky turns pink,
a moment of quiet in which to think.

And I, astride her steady grace,
become a part of this sacred place.
Where horse and rider pause mid flight
to wish the blossoms a sweet goodnight.