Down through the last glimmer of twilight, sleeping high and free, like a cloud, a moth, a ghost in the shape of a horse – Elyne Mitchell
Part I – Francis
The newborn foal tested his hooves.
Frost crackled as his legs slipped further apart.
Mother nudged him to try again.
Sandy was soon frisking with the other foals. They shivered when the wild brumbies whinnied on winter evenings and chased Bogong moths in the spring. Sandy grew bold in the crisp mountain air.
Summer came and eucalyptus burst into flower. The horses lazed in their lush paddock swishing blowflies with their tails. As the moths flew back from their summer migration the nights became cooler. Once again frost crackled under Sandy’s hooves.
Sandy’s bay coat darkened and he grew to over 15 hands high. During his third winter, Sandy wore a bridle and saddle. He learned to carry a rider on his back. That felt strange at first. Sandy was skittish, but roaming beyond the home paddock was exciting. There was so much to discover.
One morning a stranger opened the gate.
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