The young horse stands in the pale light of a gibbous moon, his hindquarters positioned so they block the cold northwest wind. Spring has remained cool and dry here in the high desert of the southwest, and the nightly winds have steadily robbed the place of its water. A heavy toll has been taken this year on the plants and animals who live here, and the horse can sense the corpse of one of his kind close by, though the man who travels with him is unaware of it.

The moon is bright, but not quite bright enough, and the man labors to read a beat-up paperback novel. He wishes the moon was full, and as it moves lower across the sky, the man finally gives up his struggle and stuffs the book into his saddlebags. He gets to his feet, walks over to the horse, and scratches the animal’s ears, one by one. The horse enjoys this. The man says goodnight and retires to his sleeping bag, leaving the horse to gaze at the night sky.

Coyotes bark their high, shrill cries as the moon begins to set behind the mountains to the west. Finally, the horse turns into the wind and walks the short distance to where the man is sleeping. The horse allows his legs to buckle and slowly settles to the ground next to the man. He tucks his legs beneath him and closes his eyes to dream the dreams that horses dream.