First, there is the duet of breaths: the even drawing in and deep exhalations of two beings almost synchronized. This is the metronome over which all of life takes precedence, held up by the inexorable movement of breath between the body and the world, an effort taken so for granted it is easily forgotten until one purposefully sets aside all else and listens.
Rather than venturing out, Rille's attention shifts to focus internally. He can hear his own heartbeat, a thud as steady as hoofbeats, unhurried and strong as it pushes and pulls blood through his body. His brow furrows slightly. It is not unlike, he thinks, the same current which pulses, sap-slow, through the root systems of trees. So too does the node of his body support the forest of his limbs. In the end, they are all more than a little like trees— he follows this thought, wandering through the wide canopy in search of the trunk that will lead him deeper, time suspended or, more apt, forgotten, until a contralto chuckle recalls him up to the level of his skin.
Rille's eyes flutter open. Though he may not be in his woods they are never far from him: even now, stood in an open field and exposed to the sky, he feels sheltered by overarching boughs and imagines he can trace the shadows of branches across the mare's lilac coat. The bridge of her nose is twig-dark, or crossed perhaps by the shadow cast by a slender trunk. The sun might coax her color to a rosy blush, soft as dawn, a slender bloom hidden among the brambles. Here, though, she is a cloud, free and floating, harried only by the wind. She appears still to be at peace, though her ears now point attentively toward him, and he imagines he can see the fleeting ghost of amusement still on her pale mouth.
"Tell me," he implores her without urgency, his soft voice an echo of thunder's rumble and carrying curiosity's lilt.