[open] come on skinny love just last the year

[spindlewinter]

come on in, we haven't slept for weeks;
drink some of this, it'll put colour in your cheeks

A weak spring sunbeam filters down through the leaves, which shuffle and rearrange themselves in the slight breeze. Moisture condenses and rolls, bead-like, to the lowest twist of a twig before dropping onto the horse’s back below. It makes the softest sound as it lands on the dappled coat, absorbed instantly into a dark spot, blending with the other grey circles and stars. Her steely coat marks out her youth, a fact she is vaguely self-conscious about, but for the moment no-one is close enough in the dawn light to bring such a feeling to mind. 

The light came first, early, the day eager to rush ahead towards the summer – but it did not bring any warmth with it, not for the first few hours. She blinks slowly as she wakes up cold and damp, shaking her low head and feeling another few droplets roll from her mane. Outside of the trees which had sheltered her the night before there is that starting sunlight and she stretches gently, raising her head towards it. Grass, pale but good, whilst under the copse there is scuffed dirt from the tread of hundreds of hooves; her sleeping place has been popular with the droves of homeless horses seeking a new start in the Field.

She remembers dimly the warmth and care of childhood awakenings, her mother’s side and the tall bodies of others around her – but she is grown now, taller than most, graceful enough in her movements in a way that her bulky frame does not imply. She slips forwards now out of the gently waving boughs and dripping water, between the trees and dewy cobwebs into the open meadow. Other early risers are congregated around the margins and she briefly considers – or tries to consider – approaching one of the nearer groups. But her confidence fails her and she lowers her head to crop the young grass in short, quick movements. She is like an empty page with a pen poised over it ready to write; with her few years, she doesn’t know what she hopes to achieve from coming here. A friend, perhaps, or a home? She hasn’t given it enough thought and this realisation startles her, driving her to graze more determinedly for a second as though this would give her purpose. The frightening thing is how vulnerable this makes her – to think that someone else here might suspect her future, or know what she is good for, when she herself does not.

In limbo, not knowing, she waits and eats and glances as the sun crawls into the sky and dries off the morning dew. A part of her wants to return to her hiding place and stay, looking out, without anyone looking in – but the trees are behind her now, and the future waits in front.

Spindlewinter