Meadow

There were signs and wonders一

Little spots of sunlight dappled against water, the acidic taste of birch bark. Blood moons and half moons and moons gone black as night.

He knew the signs.

Signs which cursed him, which blessed him. He was of no particular superstition, no creed had ever passed from between his lips. No, the black horse was his own, in a way. Like a stranger all his life he wandered, never quite touching on anything tangible一except:

It goes like this,

It goes on forever and ever in an endless desert. Wherever she went. Whoever she was now. He sighed against the meadow grass and they waved at him, tickling the whiskers along his chin. It was eternity in a breath. The long suffering ghost he had become. These islands were never truly home for the black stallion, his home was in some far away place built from blood and ice and the harsh bite of yellowed teeth.

But the island had given him something once一too long ago now. The memory was like dust blown in a summer wind, like the wings of newborn butterflies.

He hears the stallion approach him, the quiet noise of hooves and grass. When the stranger comes close enough, they exchange their breaths and,

“Oh,” Gael sighs, one dark shell of an ear flicks towards the stallion. “No,” his voice like mist or light rain, hardly there. “Yes, I mean, I left to一”

Here a pause, thoughtful and inward.

“I’m back now,” Gael nods, more to himself, “I’m back and everything has changed.”