tin and gold

discarded thing: wretched and unwelcome. they pushed her from the throw, and it was unimaginable that she would have survived the plummet into the sea, let alone the expanse of brine and cruelty crossing the ocean. unimaginable. but it happened. there she lay, pressed against frost-bound sand and turf. her face was held against it from fatigue, pressed deep against the coarseness and cold. she had been awake for what felt eons, but had no desire to move. it took her a moment; for the unloved wretch to find her strength and will. pulled from the sunlight, she collected every inch of fortitude from that false warmth. Her weight was propped, and only after some time, did she stand. shakily at first, her body wobbled and her knees trembled. but fortitude and stubbornness locked survivalist drive in place. she tested her step, her weight. it seemed all was fine, simply bathed in fatigue. a tired groan wound its way loose as she felt the machinations of every muscle stretch and reach, and in the echoes of that wakefulness, she realized it would be good and better to see exactly where poseidon had spat her out.


two year old / gypsy cob / fourteen hands