Once, A Race by A Forest

 Sharing for The Sunday Muse #163.

Hooves thud in her body, 

leather snaps in the steel; 

Midnight runs through her fingers

like horses through the leaves.

Call up the wild hunting dark,

Call up the deer and the spark;

A myth races the heart. 

So this week saw both our first in-person writers' meeting (for WordCrafters) since...well, you know. The rain has been heinous in Texas lately (my mother-in-law called a few days ago with a story about how the lightbulb in the kitchen had turned red during a sudden thunderstorm...that is going in a story at some point) and there was a slight break Wednesday afternoon. It's a beautiful morning today, as well, meaning Arthur can go outside rather than hiding under desks and crawling into laps. 

Anyway. A story is swirling around my ankles, trying to decide whether to run away or snap at my toes or snooze itself larger in a nearby notebook. And I think that she's playing a myth, above. Trying to find the fingering that will let it breathe just as she does. And maybe that myth is about the way the world once again recreates itself after the flood. 

-- Chrissa