To many, Spring is the epitome of new. New life, new growth; pink and white and sunshine yellow flowers prodding through the winter's old decay and the cry of new babies as they search for their dam's teat. To many, this time was meant for celebration. However, to the girlchild picking her way through the grass, Spring simply felt hot. How could anyone possibly think about flowers and babies and lovers' lanes when the earth felt like it was going to burst into flames? Not that anyone would think those things about her, of course. At least, no one ever had.
She moved sluggishly, eyes downcast against the heat of the sun. Annoyance colored every line of her red-dark body. Flames – live, rippling - sprouted along her neck, as well as flashed against her rump. Where her flamed-tail touched, the grass darkened and dried; however, the flames that licked her skin left no mark behind (a small mercy, as her dam used to say). The little mare heaves a not-so-little sigh as, overly warm beneath the Spring sun, she stops at a small pond. The pond is tucked in a curve of land. Reeds grow wildly at its far edge and a pair of ducks drift lazily through the center. Though the water tastes of algae, she drinks her fill, dark eyes closed in satisfaction. Bits of fiery forelock dip into the water's surface and begin to smoke, though she doesn't notice.
After several moments, she lifts her head and with a sudden smile on her flame-shadowed face, she leaps forward, splashing into the pond's lukewarm water with a childish laugh. The water sizzles around her, smoking, as the flames dance merrily against her brow and hips.
Cleo
when it all goes up in smoke