i bet she's got that touch that makes you fall in love; any

Like little imps, they steal about on quick quiet feet, trailing mischief in their wake not unlike the lengthening tails that stream from their ever-close haunches in colors of blue, black, and red.

From here to there and there to here, they are everywhere and nowhere at the same time because they are so wholly unto themselves an entity of three not one - there is nothing singular about them beside the one sex - the filly, but even she is the same as them, brutish and boastful and bossy. Then again, she has to be to compensate for the fact that this is their only difference - she is a she and they are not, they are them and so not her.

They come on a tide of fresh giggles and smiles that say they know everything of their own happinesses and nothing of the sorrow of others. For them, they have no knowledge of tears or sad faces, even when one of them frowns it is swiftly followed by a wink and a laugh to show that they meant it only in jest. Sorrow to them is but a dream of a dream of a thing they fail to comprehend. Their only hurts have been fleshly and expected, none of them have dared to break a heart or offered theirs’ up for the breaking. Same with their dreams, the shine of which is always bright in their starry strange (only because between them, there is no difference other than the face in which they sit - blue, black, or red, but the eyes are all the same - shadowy, shot through with light, impossible eyes that should not be on any of them but they are only eyes all the same - brown and bright) eyes as they look about, looking for nothing in particular.

The nothing in particular is a mare pretty and used up with leaves heaped on the broad valley of her back. She looks like she is sleeping or dead, and each of them thinks that maybe a kiss or a kick will wake her up but they think less of the latter, none of them prone to violence so much as they are mischief and kisses can be quite mischievous if done right. They are not quiet in their approach, bold and bumbling and loud as they call to one another in loud childish voices and silly snorts. The two colts have their chests puffed out and the filly rolls her eyes at them, her teeth quick to chide with nips that make them say “Ow!” and “What was that for?” in shrill infantile sport. They tease one another as they surround her, two on each side and one in front, a small army of not-quite-foals but all lank awkwardness of another phase of maturation that holds them fast in its angry grip.

“Wake up,” says one.

“She’s not breathing,” says another.

“Hush!” shouts the first, blue and feminine despite the ring of authority in her voice as she eyes the colts imperiously, her head held aloft like a diminutive queen.

Not a one of them makes an apology for their reckless intrusion.

Not even as they begin to snuffle and poke at the legions of leaves on her back, trailing their noses down her sides and legs as they slide their curious mouths all over her sad old (to them she is, they have no true concept of age or time) skin.

“So pretty…” one of them sighs, most likely one of the colts.

“Not really,” echoes the haughty little filly with a toss of her head (even though she is the one doing the most exploration, focusing heavily on the knees and soft underside of the breast as if she can sniff out the sad old heart that beats brokenly inside).

“Yes she is,” argues the third, another of the colts.

“Lovely bones,” they all say in unison in voices that chime bright with the folly of youth.