Hoshor Plains You think we're the enemy.

Seen all manner of places and the plains are no different. Not jaded enough, yet, to write them off. Beautiful even when blanketed in snow. . .no, perhaps especially when. Dead grass en masse is an ugly sight. Counts his blessings. Could be worse. Could be muddy, like when the snow's melting and the sun stays up longer. 

Fun to roll in cool spring mud, though. Refreshing. Simple joys in life. 

Sees the colt nearby and whinnies in greeting, breath fogging, voice carrying like the whisper of a long-dead soul on the wind. Quiet here. Not many of his kind to be found. First he's come across in moons. Bereft for so many days. Seasons. Years. Centuries — no life lasts that long. Not in corporeal sense. 

Spirits go on far longer. Prophets reborn again and again, remembering each facet of their many existences. Flora, fauna. Even human. Didn't prefer that test of steadfastness. Human brains are too active. They've got so much —

Food water shelter. Sex, children. Humans complicate things. Wolves are too sharp. Deer flighty. Pick horse again and again. Closest to the Sun God. No other comes close. 

Hail, stranger, comes his call, filled with quiet joy. Friend or foe? What is in your heart?

Not questions, but demands. Don't let the lilting voice and punctuation lead you astray