in the middle of the night; anyone

[Amanita]

amanita in the middle of the night - i go walking in my dreams . . . She knew what that was like. To wake up one day and realize you no longer searched beside you for that familiar face. That you no longer expected to hear their hoofbeats just beside you as you wandered. Amanita no longer even thought his name for it would undoubtedly suck her down in a riptide of memories and she might not climb back out this time. When the stallion begins to move closer, she welcomes the distraction. At first. The wings ruffling at his sides are too familiar and for a moment she closes her eyes dismissing the similarities. It had to be wings. But no horn adorns his head to accompany those feathered appendages and his coat is dissimilar in color as well. She almost scoffs aloud at her own weakness. Not him. Her own petite head nods in response, “Amanita.” Involuntarily her eyes are drawn to the feathers, not in is wings, but those that hang entwined in his mane. She steps forward, undoubtedly into his personal space, and whuffs softly with the intent of sending the feathers swinging. Her eyes become delighted and her whole posture lightens, “pretty” she sighs. The red mare steps back to face him again. “The green one, where is it from? Another horse or a bird?” Thinking back she cannot remember ever seeing a green bird in the Meadow or the few territories she visited. Perhaps she has not traveled far enough. Though the land was also changed from the last time she had spent time traversing across it. Mountains had moved, forests and deserts disappeared and reappeared in different places. Only the Meadow seemed to have remained the same. This place, could it be called home?