The Horses that whistle

In the never-ending fields, where the grass whispers with the morning mist, moving softly through each blade, the due droplets giving that morning freshness of fresh cut grass, with every breath and the sun shining down warming everything that it sees as the coldness of the early morning frost leaves like smoke rising from the ground, like a fire with no flame, the air fresh, the soft crunch of the frosty ice under your feet with every step crystallizing a cast of your memory, you stop and turn around to see your path of no return.

I gaze, in to the field and there you see the horses in the meadows as the day ahead moves the wind brushing their feathered tails of the horses, it flickers and rustles they shake as if, existed, giving a charm of relaxation to the mind, their breath like a fiery frost that comes from their snorting snout the noise, that is heard during an inspiration as they breath in, making it a high pitched soft whistle to a harsh roar and the whistle sound comes to the ear for all to hear.

Their manes long and wave with the breeze as they stand strong, heads up high looking right at you like adopting a glare to make you freeze like a statue, still, as if frozen in time, listening to everything that surrounds them. You stand there looking at what beauty is looking back, as their hoofs hit the ground as if to say to you, move on. The dark chestnut stands out from the frost that surrounds the beast, it’s coat breathing like misty frost as the sun warms it’s body, they move slowly, you hear their hoofs pound the hard frozen ground pounding hard towards you, as ever faster within seconds they are with you, standing fast, wishing for you to touch their manes, and their broad stock heads, waiting for you to pat them, just for your response they look down at you, their snort sound like whistle deafens the very sound of silence. Their frosty warm breath touches the morning air breathing as if the frost is coming out of their mouth as if it is chilled below the dew point of the surrounding air and the surface itself is colder than freezing as frost will form on the surface. The frosted surrounding trees and shrubs frost like branches entwined not moving, your breath fresh, your face warmed with the suns glow touching you like a warm fire coming in from the cold evening frost, consists of speckles of ice which grow out from the solid surface, a sight for all to see, “ for frost to form the deposition surface it must be colder than the surrounding air,” I thought.

The trees now start to melt their icy frost form, from the frosted branches, like tear drops that fall to the ground, starting to sing a song, one drop at a time then faster as if the branches have started to move, the trees come to life from that frozen prison of the frost, moving, dancing as to say I’m here look at me. The horses move back as not to get wet, slowly drawing back they turn around, dashing off in to the field jumping like a child with a new toy.

The intense frost may be observed around cracks in cold wooden sidewalks when moist air escapes from the ground below as life comes to all that was white with frost, the horses rush around, the grass is green again, you look around and see the footsteps have gone as if like magic disappearing one by one, the grass wet with hoof marks and the due droplets jump around, with every step they take, as if dancing on the frosty ice, as every drop touches the blades of grass they blend back and turn green, as each drop touches the ground, it is as if it’s a trampoline bouncing back up and coming back falling down like a fountain.

I look at the horses and see a splendour of pure play, yet one horse stands, looking, as if checking that all he sees is in order, he roars as if he is the master, his noise loud whistle is a sound of pure nature “I’m alive again” once again we see what was white with frost come to life with colour, and the Horses whistle.