It was mid morning when a chestnut charger galloped into town out of the west, riderless. He stopped and walked one way then another in the town square not far from the "Battle of Bywater" memorial. The saddle was still on his back, the bit in his mouth. His ears were held back against his mane and he was sweating.
He stopped and sniffed the air and looked about, and his eyes calmed as he saw a building that called to his memory with warmth and hay and the open and safe field behind. He trotted toward it and waited just outside, his ears perking to the sound of his kind breathing and eating peacably inside.
[ July 11, 2003: Message edited by: littlemanpoet ]
|