It rides a lithe horse along my breastbone. Light patters announce his arrival. His pace quickens to a steady rhythm that, in different circumstances, would be comforting and assuage my nightly worries. Not so with saddlebags full of my lamentations weighing him down. Poor horse with my bag of sorrow strapped on his back and smacking against his swollen sides. Poor me with the weight of a packhorse pacing my breastbone. My heart flutters unevenly. Dust storms spin in my chest. My throat is a tight rope and I scratch out a breath around the coarse braid. The skin inside my elbows is thin and begins to sweat. Like a steer ducking a swinging lasso, my worries keep missing connections and spin around my head. My knees are loose, and my feet float below to my ankles. More horses arrive and they run the length of my limbs and circle my head. They pause to curl lassos above their heads and throw them across the yard. The ropes arc across the sky like birds. Horses gallop in a frenzy. They are frothing with suds along their flanks, and their waists twist up impossibly when they turn corners. Their frantic race courses over my body, lathering my scalp, quickening my heart, and catching my breath. The hysteria of their pounding hooves drums deep in my ears.