Assailant
Springtime in the Meadow is quickly becoming a favorite time of year for him. He greatly enjoys the grasses that grow taller than anywhere else, the multicolored flowers dotting the landscape, the small creatures darting along both above and below. The sun has just barely risen and he follows the bird songs, savoring the lack of equine presence in these early hours.
He’s been growing slightly weary of interactions, for he finds too much disappointment each time he realizes that he is seeing a new face, rather than the familiar one he craves. He is not wholly ungrateful for the new acquaintances, for they have all been so helpful. He is just tired, both physically and mentally.
How much longer?
The question lingers in the back of his mind at all times, taunting him at every turn. But today, he wants to ignore it, to muffle the voice, to bury it in pleasant things. So, he follows the chirping to a spot where a willow’s branches droop to skim the surface of one of the creeks that cut through the land.
He takes some time to slake his thirst and nibble at the grass before he retreats beneath the low-hanging branches. The combination of the soft bubbling of the water and the gentle avian melodies is soothing and though the day is young, he finds himself drowsy. Feeling overly comfortable, he folds himself into a prone position among the thick patch of clovers that grow here, wings spread just enough to cover his body.
Surprisingly, the echoes and murmurs are quiet for once and it does not take long for sleep to pull him under. Yes, this is exactly what he needs right now.
All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware
--Martin Buber
@Famkee