Shadow of A Girl with Curls and Horses.

     I Sit atop a blister of grass within the paddock where the horses feed.  Afternoon sun skims along the surface of the tree-line to the west, it feels good to be warm for once. A light easterly, spring breeze is floating up and over the uneven fields below me.  It feels good.  Solitude and the sound of four retired champion steeds grazing on the fresh grass of spring, and the old roots of winter's passing.

     I sit on the grass. On the prickly weeds. On the dirt. On the damp soil of yesterday's rain, quickly drying from the flares above.  

     I sit on the grass, listening and watching it be plucked just above the pores of where it had sprouted weeks ago, and it is masticated slowly; churning with purpose.

     I walk, they run, following me obediently, as if they were always mine.  Stubbornly, they stop, where I follow and I stand.  Freckles to the wind, posterior core to the receding rays.  

     I see the shadow of a girl with curls, in the copper coat of the Thoroughbred. She stands alone, in solitude of choice.  With nothing but the elements at her aid.