08-12-2016, 08:52 PM
A veil of rain poured down from the darkened heavens onto the parched pasture below. The droplets speckled the coat of an aging chestnut mare grazing on the dry grass. She lifted her head, grass still hanging from her lips, and look up at the weeping sky. The rain showered her icy, clear droplets that soaked into her red hide and mane. After suffering days of intense, summer heat, the rain was a much welcomed sign to Brigha, but after awhile, the tapping of rainfall on her skull became an annoyance.
Brigha snorted and shook her mane, which was now gathered in wet strands. She spied a lonely tree rooted in the field, catching the rain in its canopy as it sprawling branches reached toward gray sky. It seemed like a good place to get out of the rain, so the aging mare started towards its. The tree did a fair enough job of sheltering Brigha from the shower, with only an occasional droplet rolling off its emerald leaves. She stood still, her head level with her body, done with grazing, and her ears relaxed as she watched the clearing with dull eyes.
She had been on her own for so long. The loneliness was beginning to eat away at her heart, at her will. Brigha had isolated herself from other horses as bitterness grew in her once pure heart, like a gnarled weed that strangled the sweet grass. She cursed her body, she cursed it for refusing to carry foals, for never going into heat. She cursed the other mares too, with their little colts and fillies prancing by their sides. She hated them. She hated her womb. It made her heart ache, to see dams with their foals. Motherhood was something Brigha longed for. She wanted it so badly, maybe even more than any other mare, but it was never meant to be. What use was she when she cannot do the one thing she had been built to do, and how could any stallion cherish a barren mare?
Brigha snorted and shook her mane, which was now gathered in wet strands. She spied a lonely tree rooted in the field, catching the rain in its canopy as it sprawling branches reached toward gray sky. It seemed like a good place to get out of the rain, so the aging mare started towards its. The tree did a fair enough job of sheltering Brigha from the shower, with only an occasional droplet rolling off its emerald leaves. She stood still, her head level with her body, done with grazing, and her ears relaxed as she watched the clearing with dull eyes.
She had been on her own for so long. The loneliness was beginning to eat away at her heart, at her will. Brigha had isolated herself from other horses as bitterness grew in her once pure heart, like a gnarled weed that strangled the sweet grass. She cursed her body, she cursed it for refusing to carry foals, for never going into heat. She cursed the other mares too, with their little colts and fillies prancing by their sides. She hated them. She hated her womb. It made her heart ache, to see dams with their foals. Motherhood was something Brigha longed for. She wanted it so badly, maybe even more than any other mare, but it was never meant to be. What use was she when she cannot do the one thing she had been built to do, and how could any stallion cherish a barren mare?