09-10-2016, 07:54 PM
Sometimes in his dreams (in the softest, deepest parts of his dreams) he thinks he is flying. He’ll appear from the dark mist (that fine edge that lies on the corner of his vision) with his feet soaring above the ground and his body high among the birds. He’ll carve trails into the fluffy condensation of the clouds, weave between the hazy rays of the sun, and land on storm clouds that roll beneath his legs. They’re incredibly happy dreams (dreams that bring a smile to his sleeping lips, dreams that make him squirm and whisper with delight, dreams that leave an impression over the next day) and he values their warmth when he wakes to find his side leaning against a tree rooted into the inevitable ground.
He wakes that way (hip comfortably resting against the tree, feet uncomfortably resting on the ground) and startles himself with his surroundings. He hadn’t anticipated falling asleep in the Playground. There are many foals younger than him in his ripe old age of a year old and he wouldn’t want to drop his cool act in front of the adolescences. But it still happened, so he shakes his dark shoulders and heads away from the shadow of the tree.
He watches them all with a mild sort of interest (it’s an offhand expression and sort of uncaring, his nose almost just wrinkles and his ears only so twist toward a laugh) but most of his attention is drawn toward the Playground fairy. Ever since he started coming here regularly (although he rarely played with the other foals, mainly lingering near the trees fantasizing about flying above them) he’d adored the watchful fairy as she guarded over the children. He found her magic enchanting and all-powerful. Although a petite, skinny slice of him wished for that sort of enchantment, he was more amazed by what she could do rather than what he might be able to do.
So the yearling settles himself near a shallow creek (the water barely comes to the top of his hoof; it has to be shallow for those clumsy newborns after all) and watches as she heals bruised knees and solves arguments and scares off a badger with a single thought.
He wakes that way (hip comfortably resting against the tree, feet uncomfortably resting on the ground) and startles himself with his surroundings. He hadn’t anticipated falling asleep in the Playground. There are many foals younger than him in his ripe old age of a year old and he wouldn’t want to drop his cool act in front of the adolescences. But it still happened, so he shakes his dark shoulders and heads away from the shadow of the tree.
He watches them all with a mild sort of interest (it’s an offhand expression and sort of uncaring, his nose almost just wrinkles and his ears only so twist toward a laugh) but most of his attention is drawn toward the Playground fairy. Ever since he started coming here regularly (although he rarely played with the other foals, mainly lingering near the trees fantasizing about flying above them) he’d adored the watchful fairy as she guarded over the children. He found her magic enchanting and all-powerful. Although a petite, skinny slice of him wished for that sort of enchantment, he was more amazed by what she could do rather than what he might be able to do.
So the yearling settles himself near a shallow creek (the water barely comes to the top of his hoof; it has to be shallow for those clumsy newborns after all) and watches as she heals bruised knees and solves arguments and scares off a badger with a single thought.
pollute.