when ego walks with avarice
Twin shadows slink shoulder to shoulder under branches laid bare by early winter’s teeth. This grove of trees is old, brittle, and first to lose its crown; only a handful of wilting stragglers still cling. Harvest moonlight stipples the skin of each mare as they pause under that skeletal canopy and turn their heads, synchronized, operating on a level deep as blood as they both point their ears toward the dark swath of healthy pines in the distance, the cry of a wildcat already faded to little more than a whisper of fear on the wind.
“Hatırlarsın?” one whispers to the other, muzzle near her ear, two pairs of dark eyes wide and glistening against the night. It has perhaps been long enough that these lands have forgotten whose hooves have crossed it under the tracks of so many others. Time has been generous to them both in that regard: history is as distant to these two as last year’s spring is to these withering trees.
The mare coated in glossy obsidian with a splash of white on her nose hangs her neck over the withers of her companion. Her throat is a hot pressure on the other’s back, the rhythm of her pulse equally soothing. They wait for a time, listening, wary, but what night activities had ceased at the call of the hunting cat slowly resume, and the fields are once again full of little aural pockets of vitality.
The other mare, she with the deeply dished face and deceptively delicate build, arches her neck and chuckles. “Sence Iftikhar mezarda yuvarlanıyor mu?” She turns her head to offer the other a coy smile and earns an amused snort before the sleeker mare withdraws her head with a low sigh. It is time.
They touch noses for a moment, white to black, sharing breath before the shorter mare murmurs, “Rüzgarı iç,” and urges her companion away with a nip and a nudge.
“Kalbimi taşı, Shararat,” the ‘Teke bids her farewell before she slips away, stepping into a smooth gallop across the close-cropped grass of the open field, headed south, alone.
It will not be for long, Shararat thinks, but that is little consolation against the night’s suddenly sharp chill.
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shararat & ak burun
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