Sun Mote Copse but you're holding me like water in your hands

some cowpokes wrote poetry on the trail, but colt had never been one of those. he forged his signature in fire that scorched the belly, in the hard indomitable drive of both himself and his flesh; briggs was ruled by what was tangible, and that had always suited him fine.
the reality of what wren gave now was the burn of moonshine in parched throats while loons cried on the lake's darkness.

***

colt exhaled as she parted a short ways. he put a larger space between them, slumping down bonelessly in the shadow of a nearby tree, to preen the matting of sweat from his fur and flick a watchful red gaze up at wren. but he spoke nothing.