Spring. The birth and growth of baby animals on the sprouted sweet glucose infused grass, insatiable to the steeds, desirable to the yearlings.
Spring. The dawn of a to be caramel tan, the start of long, piercing and demanding summer days.
Spring. The arrival of all things new; new life, new atmosphere, fresh mountains and a crisp baby blue sky reflected lake.
It is Spring. 25 degrees freshly stings. A pair of dark chocolate dipped ears fulgurate, clocking each and every neighbourhood. Scalding sun pierces her reflective shimmer, highlighting the flaxen dapples hidden within her hazelnut coat, feeling soft like lotion on a babies skin. Grimy grey hooves silently stride as they print the sun dried dirt, with a dusty cloud spraying. Dusking dark draped mane spill from her rounded muscular neck like waterfall and a mountain, cut so straightly almost like it’s been sculptured. You look at her, she’s new like a breath of fresh air washing over and refreshing your memory.
Look. A newly fenced paddock, fallen with appealing candied grass and raspy bush for shelter. Scrub does no job cloaking itself left of the hazel sun pampered tack shed. Whilst Bella Vi does no job hiding from the shielding scrub on a scorching day; Being pampered and prodded by the newly strong risen rays. The herd play off this, with hierarchy debating privilege and comfort. You look out, acknowledging their system. Arising like real strong leaders, the strong horses desire the shade, annihilating lower order.
Watch. A radiant blood orange gelding fiercely matches against a thirsting daring steed, who fights to be heard leader. As ever and always being challenged, Charlie remains heard leader. Reforming the hierarchy system which is not to be pampered with. You watch; He behaves like a stallion showing himself off as protector. He swoops the herd; then breaking like brown leaves off a crisp autumn tree, they fulfil own wants and needs. Seeking the water, some shade, some feed.
Listen now. Gentle warm breeze puffs past; through the fractured planks of a timber defined tack shed; Whispering through luscious locks of jet black mane. Soft scents scroll the breeze with smells of horse feed imprinting on your taste buds, as though it was in your mouth. Sugar Beet’s sour taste twitches and pays with your buds, watering. Dehydrated by thinly sliced meadow chaff which exhausts the moisture. Big breaths of wind swallows the breeze, chewing through the trees finishing it off quickly and wholesome. Everything is like its come to life; Alive, moving and breathing. Populus cottonwood, shaking hands with. Piercing cracks of outdated willow start and startle, an earthquake of sound. Everything is alive now. Swallowing the early silence whole.
Watch. You can gaze the stretched grey clouds, wash over by natures swing. A once sternly stood sun, gone. Pooling the sky, soon to spill and drain upon you. Silence to alive, alive to angry. Whirling water stabs, stings, and settles. Rain present like it’s been living there, a cool wind tampering with everything in your sight. Horses are no longer under the trees for shade, but for shelter. The trees are no longer shaking hands, they clap violently as the wind speeds through. Everything has mixed, the calm is gone.
Spring. Weather is unpredictable, a Sunday morning can be gentle and pristine, perfect day for newborns to entertain. An inviting day to be outside, absorbing gentle warmth and breathing contemporary air. Whereas, following Monday can drown you, spitting a gruesome storm. Spring. It is it’s own time, self, and feeling.