11-08-2015, 08:30 PM
She spent the morning as a pony (round and yellow as a pat of butter), and the afternoon as a shire stallion with black eyes and a blacker scowl. This evening she’s splashed in red and white, a chestnut tobiano with a mane and tail as pale as dressed flax. The sun has begun to set, adding an indigo hue to her coat, but the spring night is warm enough that she does not seek shelter even when the moon finally begins to rise.
There are places she could go, but she does not turn toward them.
Instead she circles the large lake in the center of the meadow, her round hooves beating a narrow path into the black silt. She marks her rounds by the times she passes the half-submerged log, where a resting loon peers at her with red eyes from her nest in the reeds. Though she waits for weariness, it neglects her, and the sky grows black around her and stars begin to appear, reflected perfectly in the still water. The meadow is quiet, and the soft jingle of her earrings and anklets seem unnaturally loud in the night air.
There are places she could go, but she does not turn toward them.
Instead she circles the large lake in the center of the meadow, her round hooves beating a narrow path into the black silt. She marks her rounds by the times she passes the half-submerged log, where a resting loon peers at her with red eyes from her nest in the reeds. Though she waits for weariness, it neglects her, and the sky grows black around her and stars begin to appear, reflected perfectly in the still water. The meadow is quiet, and the soft jingle of her earrings and anklets seem unnaturally loud in the night air.
D J I N N I
genie | rose gold tobiano dun | trickster