Sleepy Fox Hollow whistle tones

the painted thing was all clean lines and wind-stung grace, eyes like river ice—sharp, unmoved.

colosseum paused mid-step, one hind hoof still sunk deep in the loam. the mare turned to face him, not flinching, not folding. a quiet flare of her chest, a challenge without teeth.

he stood tall, ears flicking, eyes steady. the curl of his lip softened, though the sinew in his neck stayed drawn tight, like a bow held at full draw.

she gave a name.

sundown.

it hung there between them, hot and slow. he didn’t answer. didn’t need to. names were for knowing, not claiming.

he stepped once more—forward this time. not circling now. direct. his nostrils flared in turn, pulling the scent of her skin through the wet air.

then he stopped. a stallion’s length away. enough for space. enough for her to leave, if she wanted.

behind him, a distant shuffle. fancy, maybe. or one of the colts.

he didn’t look back. she was taking his attention.

colosseum. guess she deserved to know.