Bejeweled birds cry out. Their voices lilt, then scream. Quick flashes of color; shinebright even under the black underneath of the jungle's trees. She can feel the brush of their wings. The speed of their great flight ruffle her forelock, tangling strands throughout her long, doe lashes. She looks up, hazel eyes overly bright – and her mother, a stalwart bulk of warmth,looks down on her. Then her mother is pushing her, rough nose to her rump; pushing, pushing her up onto spindly legs that shake and quiver with every step. Her dam's touch is persistent. “Why?” Her voice is childish, a high whine coming from a new throat. Her mother's answer is a jay's screeching cry.
Startled awake. She blinks sleepily, hazel eyes bright and lipid beneath heavy lashes. Sunlight has begun to filter through the small grove that she has, temporarily, called home. For a moment, she considers going back to sleep. Surely her dreams were more pleasant than another day alone? Yet, she heaves a sigh. Already the slumbering memory of her dam is fading behind her mind's eyes. She can no longer feel the touch of the hot jungle sun across her shoulders and the only sounds she hears are the calls of common warblers and the burble of a lazy creek. With an effort, she pulls herself to her feet; a hearty shake of her head settles her mane, tangled and thick with brier, down her neck. In the dappled sunlight of the grove, she appears a simple grey mare – lighter along her chest and hips, steel around her barrel – but as she steps, hesitantly, from the trees, she takes on their colors. Her coat flickers brown and deep green, the patterns shifting unconsciously.
She stands there for a long moment, comfortable in her sire's unusual gift of protection.
Bidelia
even when you can't see me