Exmoor
I couldn’t tell what it was at first. I was barely awake.
The mist curdled over the heather and the dawn cry of the curlews kept whipping the clouds up and up – so that whatever it was seemed to be steaming, trailing dry ice. The air was grainy as I rubbed my eyes.
Then it harrumphed at me, grew solid, coalesced around its breath. It turned its hot flank and dipped its head buyantibioticshere.com towards the stream. Drank. Whinnied. A sharp little snicker.
Pony.
On the horizon the winter sun sliced its way into the frozen sky, and you woke beside me, and said,
“What is it?”
*Wendy Ann Greenhalgh aka Story Scavenger – writes flash, short stories and is currently hacking her way through the final draft of a novel. www.storyscavenger.blogspot.com
