With two fingers, she moved the bedroom curtain lace to the side. The mare swished black flies with her tail. She misses her stable mate, her Shadow. She is half without her.
She let go of the lace, touched her belly. Three spirits had come from her, but it was likely that none would follow. If somewhere the spirit of her little girl—who looked and laughed like him—waited by a stream, would she wait an eternity or would another claim her, love her?
The stream would run forever, infinitely patient; but such could not be expected of a child.