White Morning

I wiped an arc of condensation off the window with my sleeve and looked through the shards of frost.  Everything was white.  There was a white horse in a white field breathing white steam.  The trees were frosted and the pond was hard and dusted.

 

The horse was looking at me, not moving, breathing steam.  She was saddled.  I put on my cold trousers and cold boots and jacket.  I went outside.

 

Now I was breathing steam.  The sun was low, making stripes of trunks on the white crunchy grass.  I walked up to the horse.  She didn’t move but breathed hot on my face and looked at me.  I put my foot into the stirrup and hoisted myself into the saddle.

The End

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