The Horse and the Sky by Megan Schwinn

Gray skies stretch wide above us, soft and heavy, the kind that foretells rain but never lets
it fall. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth–distant rains–and the sound of creaking
leather with each shift of movement. My horse’s breath is slow and steady as we move, visible in
the cool air, his bay coat especially dark under the clouded sky, a striking contrast against his
white shoulder. His black mane, tousled by the silent breeze, shifts with each step, a rhythm in
time with the quiet lull of hoofbeats pressing into the light sand of the ground.

Here, the world is hushed, wrapped in the stillness of clouded light. One hand grips the
black leather reins and the other reaches to trace the smooth curve of his neck, warm and soft.
Beneath my touch, his skin twitches, alive, the steady pulse beneath it an unspoken beat of trust.
My gloves–black and brown–are worn but familiar, supple as they flex against the reins. The
saddle too is black, complementing the horse’s dark coat, enhancing his pale marking like a
fragment of the sky.

Just for this moment, it is only us and our surroundings; the soft sound of hoof on sand,
the distant murmur of wind in the trees, the steady rise and fall of our breaths. My silver hair,
loosely braided, slips forward over my shoulder, catching the faintest light as it sways with the
movement of the ride. The black sleeves of my hoodie, pulled down to my wrists, shield my skin
against the lingering chill, though I barely feel it. This moment is sacred—for a reason I cannot
grasp—as if time itself has paused to let us be.

Still, we walk, but the gray fades. The weight of the world melts into the prints in our
wake. With every step, the clouds seem lighter, the air softer, the horizon wider. I finally lift my
gaze, and I see it–the quiet promise behind the storm.

Blue days.