Pretty pink sky

Pretty in Pink trots through the short grass with playful poise. The blustering wind of the open field whips through his mane, feathers and tail. High above, that wind whips up cotton candy coloured clouds into a brilliant display that fills his heart with joy and anticipation. Tonight, he would sleep peacefully in the grass, it still warm from the heat of the day, with a canopy of stars watching over him. 

He stops, and turns with elegant ease, snorting and looking out in awe toward the mountains in the far distance, with his deep, yellow eyes. The heart shaped bunting on the fence under his chin flutters in the wind. The breeze is refreshing. A chill - somewhat physical, and somewhat emotional - a moment of catharsis - makes the front of his fluffy belly shake a little bit. 

His ears turn to and fro with his attention, to follow the swallows that dive across the sky ahead, chasing eachother in sweeping, triumphant dances like an encore for the day. The last of the light, golden and sweet, falls across his face and infuses his eyes with a warm glow, giving them the appearance of intricate glassblown sculptures. 

His white belt is transformed by this golden light into a sparkling, glimmering landscape, each individual hair almost translucent and bathed in light; each one a thing of beauty. 

The moment is savored by every creature here. 

He turns to bend down to the brownish, early spring grass. It smells fresh, with the earthy, rich smell of the fertile soil feeling like home to him. Taking up a mouthful, he relishes the peace that gently sweeps through him. That peace comes along as he chews, yet he knows that the sweet taste of the grass didn't produce it. The endless supply of this peace only took that small opportunity to appear, dancing along in symphony with the ever sweeter taste of the grass. 

The faint smell of pine sap drifts in on the wind as he stands motionless and squarely, gazing at the horizon and the shimmering sun steadily hiding itself behind the mountains. 

At the other end of his paddock, three other horses graze idly, silhouetted against the sun. One snorts and shakes his mane.They graze lazily, taking little interest in the new horses passing the area. The stallion takes a long breath through his flared nostrils, gathering information on the other horses. After some time wandering in the valleys, he grows interested in the nearby groups and their dynamics. He paws one dark hoof through the straw coloured grass. He is weary of getting too close to unknown horses, stallions may see him as a threat and chase him off... or worse. Better to watch from a distance, enjoy the entertainment without any of the drama.  

His guardians are kind travelers, diligent in all their work, and watchful protectors of their horses. One of their daughters had fastened a coin belt she had lovingly woven for him, a 'bedlah', to rest on Pretty in Pink's tail. Rose-gold heart shaped bells dangle from the bottom of the sash. He is reassured by the gentle sound of the silver coins of the sash tinkling against eachother, and the bells ringing quietly.

He looks over to the water trough by the other horses. It ripples when one of the mares goes to drink from it, gently breaking up the still mirror reflection of the pink clouds overhead. Water drips from her mouth as she raises her head, and their eyes meet to find a short steal of eye contact. Something about her look is remote and walled off, and her posture is a little slouched. She has a beautiful short brown coat, mixed finely with dustings of white. Even with her body language of detachment, underneath that there's somehow some hint of a connection there; some mutual curiosity about each other. Maybe him and her are similar in their tentative footing in the group. He felt for a moment some commonality; that there could be the beginnings of a friendship here. It was an eventuality anyhow for them to spend some time together, since this group would be journeying far together - to who knows where, for who knows how long. The grass over by her and the others is longer and fresher than where he stands now. He feels an urgent internal pull to go and graze there. His front legs tense, ready to start moving. That urge is held back by his sensible avoidance of their unfamiliarity. For now, he will just rest for the night. The last sliver of the sun eases behind the mountains, and stillness is ready to fall over the landscape. The swallows go up to perch in the pine trees all around, and their songs become lullabies.