The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the color of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells--
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
What should only get brighter is becoming dark instead. 
 Morning could also be a pun, its homophone “mourning” appropriately means grieving.
Sheep in Fog