Warm breath steams from your nostrils, making plumes in the chill November air. The sun is twitching off night's cloak and spreading her fingers through the holes in the tree line. I pick the little bits of dead leaves from your mane and rub your silken haunches. You stomp your hooves and whiny, excited for our morning walk. It's become a tradition for you and me; our time to share secrets and laugh loud without fear of being shushed. It's our time to pretend we're immortal and the world will stand still for us. It's our time to cry on the shoulder no one else can spare for us. It's our time to be sisters.
April 10, 2010