09-25-2018, 07:24 AM
"You came on a good day," I reply, glancing over at him for a moment with a brief smile. This is not a place I've ventured often (I have always stayed close to home), but from time to time I have seen a lone horse stand to take in Tephra. Much like Darrow had been doing this morning, I think as I watch his curious eyes flick across my scars.
I don't pull my wings tighter as I once did; there is no point in trying to hide them, I have learned. While the long fall of my navy and white mane often obscures the worst of them, that is not true on this windy spring day, which has a breeze that tugs at the long hair and slips against my wings invitingly.
"I am," is my answer to his question about going over, "Though I certainly wouldn't be if I had to swim." At least not today, I think, and not from this starting point. There are easier beaches a half mile here, where the cliffs have crumbled into soft sand and the journey down to the water's level is not so hazardous.
The red stallion - Darrow, I remind myself - asks where I am coming from. "The Taiga." I respond, and then add: "Though that was only because cutting through the redwoods is the shortest path to here. I started in Sylva this morning, which is where I live."
Shifting my weight, I attempt to make it clear that I am not in a rush this afternoon, as it is clear I am not preparing for an immediate take off. I am curious about the red stranger, and my blue grey eyes flick across his figure breifly before I repeat his earlier question. "And you, Darrow? Where are you coming from?"
I don't pull my wings tighter as I once did; there is no point in trying to hide them, I have learned. While the long fall of my navy and white mane often obscures the worst of them, that is not true on this windy spring day, which has a breeze that tugs at the long hair and slips against my wings invitingly.
"I am," is my answer to his question about going over, "Though I certainly wouldn't be if I had to swim." At least not today, I think, and not from this starting point. There are easier beaches a half mile here, where the cliffs have crumbled into soft sand and the journey down to the water's level is not so hazardous.
The red stallion - Darrow, I remind myself - asks where I am coming from. "The Taiga." I respond, and then add: "Though that was only because cutting through the redwoods is the shortest path to here. I started in Sylva this morning, which is where I live."
Shifting my weight, I attempt to make it clear that I am not in a rush this afternoon, as it is clear I am not preparing for an immediate take off. I am curious about the red stranger, and my blue grey eyes flick across his figure breifly before I repeat his earlier question. "And you, Darrow? Where are you coming from?"
