Patching the Palette

(For my late nephew, Nate)

Still, grey blue morning around

The green gold autumn of a red rock town,

The brown and white ponies, strangely, gone
From their usual feeding place by the fence.

They never were absent from there before,
And they've never been absent since.

Even in black and white frosts, steaming
And stamping, they're reliably, hungrily here.

But then again, no given color came around
That one necessary morning, nothing but plain air

To paint through all that gentleness
Why some days something disappears.