01-06-2016, 01:38 PM
Life is interesting. Not always. And not consistently. And maybe not for everyone. But in general, life tends to err on the side of provocative. Trystane had lived in relative peace and quiet for the first few years of his life, certainly for the heavily formative years. Because of this, he is not just a small bit sheltered, but also something like a rock in a river – steady-on, and resilient. But being constantly stripped away by nature. Slowly revealing his layers of sediment.
His father and his grandfather, emotion beyond anything he had ever felt; his red-bloodedness, and his tenderness, cleaved off by that bay mare – tokens from him he would give willingly. He is undergoing a process of pressure and weathering. A great deal different from his previous monotony.
The buckskin stallion lips at grass around the clustered, white heads of yarrow, following the sound of the stream to the drooping leatherleafs at its shore.
He can feel incoming summer. At a very young age he was introduced to the intricacies of the changing seasons. The vigor of spring, the re-emergence of insects after the frost of winter, and the flowers that bloom right before the rut of fall. But then, everyone in the Meadow today can feel the sear of summer in the heated air; and the tumble of foals keeping by their mother’s sides is a good indicator as well.
These things do not take the dedicated education of a mother preoccupied with the ways of Mother Nature.
These things are shared by all, parts of their collective knowledge and understanding. Trystane takes a deep breath, the air has shook the must of early-spring from itself, filled instead with fur, and dirt, and blooms. The scent he has come to love most of all. Above, thin clouds shift and slink across the sky. They are ponderously slow, weighted down by the heat. Sweat dampens to his own neck and shoulders.
A much better offering than the sting of winter, in his estimation. Though mother would not approve of his favoritism.
His father and his grandfather, emotion beyond anything he had ever felt; his red-bloodedness, and his tenderness, cleaved off by that bay mare – tokens from him he would give willingly. He is undergoing a process of pressure and weathering. A great deal different from his previous monotony.
The buckskin stallion lips at grass around the clustered, white heads of yarrow, following the sound of the stream to the drooping leatherleafs at its shore.
He can feel incoming summer. At a very young age he was introduced to the intricacies of the changing seasons. The vigor of spring, the re-emergence of insects after the frost of winter, and the flowers that bloom right before the rut of fall. But then, everyone in the Meadow today can feel the sear of summer in the heated air; and the tumble of foals keeping by their mother’s sides is a good indicator as well.
These things do not take the dedicated education of a mother preoccupied with the ways of Mother Nature.
These things are shared by all, parts of their collective knowledge and understanding. Trystane takes a deep breath, the air has shook the must of early-spring from itself, filled instead with fur, and dirt, and blooms. The scent he has come to love most of all. Above, thin clouds shift and slink across the sky. They are ponderously slow, weighted down by the heat. Sweat dampens to his own neck and shoulders.
A much better offering than the sting of winter, in his estimation. Though mother would not approve of his favoritism.
It is steep, it is stone. Such Recovery.
From the daily press, the deepest nest,
the keeper's keep.