12-21-2015, 07:44 PM
 ***Cupped in this soft, warm chamber — petals and simple leaves; sunlight and the earthy waft of autumn — she feels deeply at ease. Unraveling from those things that hold her uneasy, all the things that weight her muscles but never the small turn of her lips. (Almost never.) She has had more reason to smile than to sulk, she has been lucky in that way. More births than losses; more moments like this than of disquiet. Lucky. She had been born in the understory of a great, wide green — where the constant hum and hiss of bugs and birds is a white noise, everything beside and below is as good as silence. A chaotic place in a serene moment, and since then has walked the careful footsteps of her own dam. Thoughtful and wild, all the way back to the beginning. ***In nature, there are many births; in nature, there are many circles. ***The paint does not speak, she realizes. But his body is not muted. She can see the nuances there, though not as in tune to this expression as he, it is not lost on her. She does not press on his silence. She doesn't need to. It is of little import. Her ears perk forward gaily, and she reaches her neck out, blowing gently through her nostrils. She extends further with a half step, touching the lean muscle of his shoulder. It is a gesture of understanding, a purity of language that she had experienced with Mandan, but could supplemented with words in a way that Arzi perhaps never could. No mind. ***She watches the very subtle posturing with interest. It is not new. This does not regress. They speak, and they congregate in kingdoms. But they still pin their ears and lift their heads high and lick when necessary. It is not nearly so dramatic as all that here. They are content with each other, and it is all she needs — one acquiescing to the other for age, and inexperience, and to keep the peace. “Mandan.” She tests it, with a soft and curious tongue. Expressing from it it's meaning, and putting it away. She will never forget it. ***“You both seem to know the wild,” She shifts her weight, looking back and forth. A strange question, but it seems to make sense to her in the heady state of relax. “Where are you from? It does not seem kingdom to me.” She could be wrong. To her it seems obvious — the feral stallion is pine and burrs in his mane. Mandan could be of a different make. He was certainly of a different nurture, unless the paint could not speak owing to some quirk in his physiology. The rosy mare tilts her head, for a brief moment catching on the odd horns on Mandan's head. Prying her mind for images to match them, but their are exotic. A magnificent curiosity. ****‘...Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’ |