We gather underneath tittering tin, feet on Earth,  During day having labored, as all of Her  beasts do. Radiant ray gives way to beating uproar– hard, solid souls of ice hammering Her  skin like a drum. Horses heave sighs, gartered girths loose, halter and horn and crownpiece and cantle,  drinking rain and deflecting day’s wayward ice. Breeching, boot, and breastplate having taken refuge in the barn, martingales cast carefully away as our own browbands and bolos dutifully do.  Foal takes cover as we do, and weaned colt still flails his  fearless feet. In the loud and habiting hail, pattering on our  racketing roof like hooves of the Hackney, we  three, and more, keep Her  as close as our breath.