The young horse kicks up his heels in
protest of the leaving, bringing a cold frost in their wake.
The rivers would start dribbling over the
banks, turning previously dusty patches on the quilt of his home into slop comparable
to a pigs sty.
Days would curl at the edges, shortening time
spent in the soft autumn sunlight.
The cold whip of the wind would whisk away
any traces of leaves that might provide shelter while the miserable weather
enveloped the world.
But in the darkening days with the spreading
chill the tale of a young robin will be warbled to the horse as the heels he
previously kicked up slid on the muddy ground.
By
Ella Shepherd
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