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The earth has a pulse. Each beat of a birds wings, each breath taken from a cornered
rabbit and each pound of hooves from a galloping horse.
This horse, a mare, was just one of thousands galloping over
the wasteland, just one of millions who had a story to tell. One of many. Does her story matter?
Perhaps. There is
often more to each creature than is seen to the eye. (c)
This one, for instance.
On first glance, she looks like a mustang.
A crossbreed. A mutt, if you will.
'Tis true, certain. But upon further inquisition, you would find traces of Arab, Thoroughbred,
and Rocky Mountain Horse blood running through her veins.
The last is no doubt evident from her coloring, which is most
commonly found in the RMH breed. A chocolate coat and a mane of white. (c)
But this is merely the scientific description of her coat colour.
And, as such it is difficult to picture her in your mind.
But were I to describe to you her matted, tangled mane was
not merely just white, but more of a cream. And that as it grew closer to the base of where the hair began to emerge from
flesh, they were coloured more of a chocolate, a coffee colour, though I despise coffee.(c)
And if I was to continue on with describing her tail that flowed
behind her like water over rocks, the exact same colour with longer streaks of coffee than in the mane, and her slender head
of chiseled chocolate, where down her broad nose ran a stripe of pale cream, interuptted once in the middle by a narrowing,
would you then begin to imagine the mare in your imagination? In your mind? (c)
For not only did this stripe run down the length, but at the tip
of her muzzle it became a soft pink, like the colour of a dog's tongue.
And her body was slender, though that itself
might be hard to imagine for a beast so giant as she herself was. Her coat had no marring or scars upon it's chocolatey, nearly
black colour.
But that alone, is but the outside of this mare. (c)
At birth, her mother denied her as her foal; leaving her foal alone
to die. Abandoning her in the barren wasteland.
Her savior had been a human.
A human? Yes, the wild equines sworn
enemy was who saved this mare. Took her in, cared for her, until she was a yearling and able to fend for herself.
Since
that time, she has been a loner. Perhaps not the best choice to be during winters. (c)
She nearly died that first winter, starving to death beneath her
shelter: a lone willow tree. But near-death experiences are said to give you profound knowledge, or make you loony, and in
this case in gave the mare knowledge of survival in this wilderness.
In this barren wasteland where she had once been
abandoned, now she was queen. (c)
So it's up to you to decide now. Does the story of this mare matter?
Or is she, Zinnia, just another whinny of an unknown horse, just another flower being carried away by the wind?
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