The open field of my heart

The sun's influence still gently kissing the sky pink, the land slowly losing it's warm caress. Pretty in Pink lips up a last few mouthfuls of grass, chewing them lazily with his back molars. The grass is slightly hay like, but oozes a sweet tang when ground down. He savours it as he becomes dozy. The day has run away from him, unbeknownst to him it is almost over. He slowly licks his lips, the fluff of his undercoat is starting to fluff up as the cool of evening draws near. 

The blackbirds are beginning to sing their dangling calls, swinging on the air like echoing church bells. This is the universal signal of bedtime in the valley, as the last of the birdsong before the quiet of starlight. The squirrels snuggle into their cozy tree holes, the rabbits huddle in their homely burrows, foxes trot sneakily through the bushes, birds roost and brood over new eggs in woven nests. The stallion lifts his heavying head to the sky, the first few stars peak through the fading pinkness above. His belly is full of sweet grass and his legs are well used. His daffodil eyes scan quietly for a place to rest overnight. It is rare for horses to lay down for the night, especially alone, but there is nothing to threaten him here and he aches to snuggle down. He finds a few pine trees, backed up against one of the mountain's young mounds. At the bow of the tree is a beautiful bed of moss and the grass from the valley, they grow together and amongst each other. He moves his bark coloured hooves slowly, one after another, dark tipped ears swiveling as he gently plods over to his bed. Head lowered he silently fills his lungs with breaths of the bed beneath him. Scents of moss, peat and hay, pine needles, sap and bark warm his throat and nose. His eyelids are heavy and watery, he licks his lips. He begins to pick up his feet, the difficult act of laying down with four thick boned legs. He eases his body down, his white banded fluffy belly squishing out next to him, his cherry blossom feet tucked beneath him. His long tail curls over his hocks, like a creamy skirt. His rump rested against the bark of the tree. He breathes the comforting scent as his head begins drifting slightly. His mane draping over his muscled neck, tickling his chest. His breathing slowed as his toned head rested on the moss. The pines spanned branches hung over his head, the needles hiding the starlight from his tired eyes. Small birds, robins or perhaps wrens, hopped between it's branches, looking for their own places to settle down, like young kids who wouldn't stay in bed. Gentle breaths turned into quiet snores as the stallion slips into sleep. 

In his dreams, Pretty in Pink canters through summer fields. Lush green grass, that pops with moisture under hoof. Sunlight that warms through your skin into your very core, coupled with a refreshing breeze. Wildflowers throw petals as he sprints past, tail flying behind him, bells ringing sweetly. Legs that somehow never tire or seem to not need to touch the ground. The pale blue sky glimmers between the cotton candy floating in the above. 

A group of pretty mares call to him, not another stallion in sight. They are grazing on the lush grass and are all colours, shapes and sizes. Some are fluffy and black, some are golden glowing in the sunlight, pink muzzles and sharp hooves. Long lush manes and swishing tails. 

He nickers to them eagerly, arching his mauve neck, letting it shimmer in the sun. His white belly flashes in the sun as he raises his train like tail. He canters down the hill, bucking happily. When he reaches the mares, he circles them uninposingly, touching noses and smelling shoulders. Unrealistically the mares are all incredibly friendly and eager to greet him. Not a squeal out of any of them.