I'm a daydreamer in the moonlight; berber pony

[Vineine]

***She is made of her own place, too. In a less phenomenal, more plain, kind of way. In the burrs that tangle in the thick waves of her tail, the dirt congealed up her knees and the austere patience, like that of a mountain, or a rock splitting a river. In the arch of her neck, like the bow of a branch; the bent of a pollinator, busying around the bright, arousing revelation of wildflower stamina. She is dirt, and ozone, and patrichor. But she is flesh, and unembellished fleshed. Endowed the scents and the residuals, but detached from it wholly. Separated not from union, but having never been a part of it at all. ***But then, neither is this mare a star. But nurtured in that bare womb with them like siblings. Vineine is no flower, or beetle, or bluebird; she was created at the discretion of the Mother (everyone is), but outside of her modus operandi — fleshy coupling; seed and ova. A disciple of Nature, so peculiarly conceived. But at least her playmates ran red and blue with blood; cajoled in fixed time and gravity. ***The Mother is strange, complex. ***Sometimes flesh-parents can be too, bending the rules so alike a pantheon gods. ***Her fellowship begins and ends at the surface layer of her flesh. She wonders how deeply the sky echoes in this mare; whether she has a comet heart, or a neural network of stars. The cruel superficiality of this coat in flux is lost on her. ***This does not just happen. She does not mean to stare at the clouds, like cotton, running over the plain of her chest, but finds it hard not to observe that perfect mirror. She wonders whether it plays back the stars or the trash of lightening just as meticulously. “I am from everywhere,” She smiles — wilderness. “But, I've only just recently returned to the place where I was born, the jungle.” How ironic, and fortunate. That for years she raised children and made love, all while letting her call to home simmer and proof. For her, homecoming had been easy. ***So easy, she had delayed it, until it could not wait any longer. ***Her story was bright and vivid. But so very ordinary, mostly. “Where are you from?” Because your skin knows the unrest of the sky too well, but Beqanna is full of queer creatures. Not all of them are as unconventional as they appear. But she feels too remote, too grievous. Nostalgia is heavy, and it is fickle. *magic-borne daughter of Prague and Elladora ****‘...Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’