Running through fields

The soft sound of bird song and the scent of flowers was dappled in the air. A rarely seen, beautifully warm spring day. It was hot enough that you may believe it to be summer, but not enough to burn or be uncomfortable. A distant ringing, a sweet rhythmic sound jostled closer. Today was the much beloved pony ringing day. People had gathered, lining the roads all the way to the village, waiting to see them in. Ponies from the hills, valleys and lands, all splashed with their own unique colours and patterns ran through the open pass. Each adorned with their own unique bells, seemingly woven into any hair that would hold them. A person's hopeful claim singing and brightly coloured. The sound was enchanting; the gentle chiming, the sound of hooves and breath. The ponies, becoming excited with the zest of their run to town, began to split into smaller groups. They bucked and swayed, being torn between friends. I wonder if the farmers mind them running through? How could you not at such a sight? They are magnificent.

A single mare shoots into view. She serves through a hedge way, a white and black blur. Her own little juxtaposition, polar opposites so naturally entertained. Suddenly she is surrounded by yellow. Encircled by flowers as tall as her withers, she cranes her fluffy neck to scout the way out. She is eager to return to her friends. Her dark nostrils flaring and her curved ears twirling. The white feathers on her legs splayed with her steps, like their own little skirts or flared trousers. As she struts the spots flicked across her ripple, as if a flicked brush was splattered across her, or perhaps the finger trace of someone who loved her. Her shiny black face absorbs the warm hues of the flowers and sunlight around her, like a magpie she glows with different hues. The white of her soft fur is creamy, almost a light caramel in the sun, still scattered with it's tiny spots. Her short fluffy tail held high, curled around itself in the breeze, her long two toned mane copied it. In a fleeting moment, she glances back, her deep brown eyes flashing in the high sun. The bell nestled tightly in her hair continues to sound as she disappears from view. Had she been born in the highlands? Was her mother somewhere in the herd? Was she ready for life amongst people? Did she know where she was running? Who had tied bells in her hair? 

With a gentle snort, she hops over the low fence at the far end of the field. Whinnying her presence back, she rejoins a Dun and a Bay as they canter through more open farm land. She seems happy and prepared. With an even drumming of hooves. She gives a little leap forward, exerting a little extra energy. The three ponies begin to gravitate towards the rest of the herd as they continue on their way down to town

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