“Stingray”

A light breeze rustles through the brush as you walk down the soggy trail to get to the beach. The recent rain had left puddles in its wake— puddles that you had to hurdle and dodge in hopes you didn’t get sodden in the muddy, sandy water and grime.

Despite the saturated ground and the recent dreary weather, for you, it was the ideal time to head down to the shoreline and scavenge. Big storms often leave a plethora of shells and other bewildering finds along the dewy sand— perfect and ripe for the picking.

Pail and sieve in hand, and elation in your chest, you trudge down the path.

The trees thin around you, as you leave the bordering wetland and grace the shore with your presence. You gently pull your sandals off and take the drawstring from your back and put your sandals away. As you string the bag back along your shoulders, a pear you brought with you rustles and rolls to the opposite corner.

Taking a step forward, your feet sink into the ever damp, silky white sand— a deep breath of salty maritime air settling in your chest. *Time for treasure* you think excitedly, a smile spreading from ear to ear.

Not wasting another second, you run down to the water’s edge and toss your pail and sieve down before looking for some unique discoveries.

———————————————

Looking up, you notice a large grouping of objects and scramble down the shore towards it, itching for a good find.

Upon approach you find a perfect pair of sand dollars, some pretty conical shells , a few intricate pieces of polished glass, and a size-able chunk of conch. You leaf through everything and sort out the pieces you’d like to take back for your collection.

*crunch, squish, crunch* footsteps sound somewhere in front of you, pulling your focus from the shells and other trinkets before you. You look up, fully expecting to see another beachcomber or treasure seeker, but there’s nothing there… *was it just the wind? Or maybe the waves breaching the shore?* You shrug the confusion off and go back to your growing collection.

After picking up handfuls, you turn to head back to your pail and deposit your findings. However, a shiver runs down your spine once your eyes level with the horizon. Startled, you clutch the items in your hand, almost dropping them.

A large, dark figure loomed over your things. It— it was a horse… no… a pony? Carefully, quietly, you inch ever closer to your stuff, hoping not to startle them.

*What was a pony doing on the beach?* you quiz internally.

Almost to your things, you see the pony sniffing and eagerly nuzzling your drawstring. *The pear! Poor thing must be hungry*

In hopes not to scare it away, you stop your approach and click to grab the pony’s attention. It swivels its ears before looking in your direction and taking a few steps away from your stuff.

“Hey there? You lost?” You question in a soft tone and take a ginger step forward, testing the pressure. “It’s okay, you can have the pear, just let me get it for you. Is that alright?”

The pony looks at you, tilting its head a little and snorting.

You reach your stuff and place your shells into the pail as gently as possible to avoid breaking anything, then grab for your bag with a timid hand. You open the drawstring and fish inside, searching for the pear.

“Here you are,” you hold the pear out, offering it to the shy little thing. It sniffs the air and takes a small step forward out of curiosity and probably hunger. “That’s it,” you take a small step to match the pony’s.

Decided, it takes a full step forward and softly takes the pear from your hand. You tempt a forehead scratch and luckily, it doesn’t seem bothered.

“There you go,” you cheer in a soft, hushed voice and move to scratch the pony’s cheek and run a hand down its neck.

*they seems quite tame, I wonder if they have an owner?* continuing along their body, you note that it looks to surprisingly be a gelding. *Maybe he has some identifications on him then?* you search him for any storm tags or brands but find nothing in his mane, tail, or feathers.

Moving back to his head, you offer the gelding some more scratches and love— he nuzzles back in thanks, probably also searching for more snacks. He licks your hand and it tickles; his affections warm your heart.

“Well, if you don’t have an owner or a name, what should I call you? Hmm?” you ask the gelding, his head now in your hands, eyes glinting in the mid-morning sun.

“Why don’t I call you Stingray?”