Voices.
Hoofbeats, too, but twisted and sporadic hoofbeats that sound more like rain than hoofbeats. Uneven, ungaited.
My ears turn back but my eyes open with curiosity rather than aggression. Maybe a little bit of aggression. Well, always a little bit of aggression, but right now I pay no attention to my anger. The scene I’ve opened my eyes too is confusing and kind of funny; one voice, it seems, and belonging to a mare that dances crazily on the sand a short distance away. Is she fighting her shadow?
My head lifts from where it has been hovering, unmoving, above the grass for the past half hour or so.
COMPASS
WE SIT LIKE KINGS
MARE | 14.2HH | BLACK | HOMELESS