[open] Can you hear what I hear?

[Pentecost]

Do you want to know why I use a knife?
Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the...
little emotions. In... You see, in their
last moments, people show you who they
really are. So, in a way, I know your friends
better than you ever did.

A silvery glow emerges from dark shadows that play tricks in the setting sun. His mane--a careful mix of reds and purples--flapping casually in the sway of motion, his flattened ears pinned against the brim of his skull; pressed deep like rocks sinking into wet sand. Overly saturated tones of reds and oranges cast over the meadow like splatters of paint, few horses still dotting the treelines as they retreated to their kingdoms or caves. He wonders if they are like him, as they retreat back into the shadows and he comes out to play. Disappointment radiates from his starkly lit face, glistening a silver sheen in the last kiss of sun before the moon gave him a reflective glow. Does it sing to them how it sang to him on quiet nights, or in lone hours? Does it speak to them how it spoke to him about dangerous faces, horrid names, cursed colours, and the tricksters? Do you see what I see? No? I whisper in an irritated fashion, clinging to the inside of my body as the feeling of vulnerability washes over. Like squeezing my sides and feeling for my pulse made things better. A pretty bird, cries for help, A soft purr that lingers deep in my ears long after silence fell. I look where I feel IT point--the ache of exhaustion beginning to plea for attention--amidst the whisper of naked tree limbs and banks of snow left tossed from the wind, where a vibrantly unorthodox blue coloured mare stood idle on the treeline, her colours so intensely hit by the suffocated sunset. Cries for help but we’re in the clear, The air is more intensifying than the spark of rock against rock, and I gape in attempt to find the words that IT must stop. I trust my mind less than I trust the mountain lion who scouts the mountain passes. So off we take the pretty bird, I feel pressure building along my spine, the ache of my frontal lobe beginning to throb as a giant alarm. I need to sleep, it dawns on me as my mind continues to spiral in deafening shrills. Cage away her fear. The rake of tree branches against fur whispers to my left, realizing I had only made it mere yards away from the tree line before the signal of an intruder grasped my attention. A blushing glow radiates from the tip of my muzzle through and up my ears before falling back down into the root of my chest, the feeling of sweet relief. A witness meant peace, and distraction. Perhaps long enough that my mind will grow so tired it falls into a cold slumber before the black heat of words or jingles wafted into the avenue of scrutiny, again.

PENTECOST

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?