‘Twas twilight. Upon the bank of a tumbling stream, a chestnut steed nibbled tufts of green grass. A limp wet body lay in the shallow water, one wrist held high, knotted in the steed’s reins. An expressionless face, its pale cheeks grazed and bleeding.
At daybreak, the steed was discovered, alone. The water was still; the only sound, the sorrowful cooing of a pure white dove perched upon a branch above the spot where the body had lain.
Where it went, I know not. Carried downstream maybe. Claimed by creatures of the night perhaps. Gone.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle. Dale Rogerson provided the photograph. Thank you both.