These are the horses. Their tails shimmer in the slanting evening sun. Their legs curve. The texture pops up. Their ears are crisp and elegant and they perk up at the least sound of strange foot walks,  of trudging of the footfalls on the yielding sand. Chocolate is the hue on some of them and white shimmering their mane in the drooping of the sun at the advent of the winter season. Nylon cords in unfaded greed, red fastening straps run around their flanks and snouts and backs. And they growl when the dusk falls and their mouths are dipped in the bags of fodder. They growl when , I, a  total stranger approach them in the falling mist over sand. Some faces are too mild, not bothering even to shoo away the flies that pester their eyes and delicate tips of nostrils. Before the fall of the pall they have stood throughout the day like the serrated statues in marble that is white, in ebony that is dark, in night that is black. Their white mane on the chocolate flank is the loose and careless and carefree cascade of flow. In the morning their hair stood in a finesse of uplifted well-distinguished strands mellowed in the soft light and when the sun went dipping the tails were all gold showering sparkles around the curving legs—their whiteness barely separate now from the dusky dark ; slowly the whiteness dissolving into the dusky dark. The sparkling showers would disappear too a little late.