Meadow

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It is the musical, sunshine-y call that rouses Evander from his nap in the shady Meadow outskirts. He lifts his chiseled, draft-ish head from where it had rested against his tucked front legs, and blinks sleepily into the afternoon light. Across the tops of the long, languid grasses, he can see the shape of a delicate head, raised high — the owner of the voice that had woken him.

The young stallion rolls to his hooves immediately. He shakes out his autumn-gold coat, shedding the little leaves and twigs from his heavy tawny mane. He slips from his lazy spot in the trees, and into the sunlight proper, answering the musical call with a deeper, equally curious one. Now that he stands above the tall grass of the Meadow, he can see her clearly: sunshine-gold, a brighter shade than Evander’s own deep caramel-apple tones, with alabaster hair. He likes her immediately, in the way a crow might fixate on something shiny and delicate.

“Hello,” he says, parting the deep grasses between them until he stands only a few strides away. “Are you from around here? You fit right in,” he says, gesturing to the flowers surrounding them. Shameless flattery, and Evander knows it, but he could never pass up the opportunity to appreciate something lovely.

evander