Cedar stays in the horsehouse, smell of hay, smell of horses. And what does she know of horses? Well, nothing, but she’s willing to learn.

The horses take tea at 2 and supper at 5. The horses speak of philosophy and logic. The horses feel their feelings deeply. The horses have a quiet dignity. The horses will piss anywhere, gallons of steaming piss spilled out on the stones.

Cedar is their stenographer. She takes the minutes of the horsehouse. Her hands fly across the keyboard, arpeggios of argument, debate, resolution. She casts no votes — a spy in the house of horses? With a voting share? The horses whinny in dismay.

The city wheels and gallops away across the plains. Cedar runs with them, losing ground when they puff away in a dustcloud but making it up when they stop to eat. Tireless her legs, wakeful her mind. Cedar lets her hair grow long and fills her mouth with thistles, nebuchadnezzar.