Chernobyl

It’s early morning and the black mare is watching the wispy clouds of fog lift from the trees. Their deep evergreen needles holding small necklaces of twinkling droplets in the waning light of the day’s newborn Sun. Golden strings reach into a dark sky that begs to be truly lit up after waiting in a grey-blue haze most of the morning – the sky remains half illuminated for several hours until the sun peers over the cliffs guarding the Steppes from the fierce ocean. Chernobyl watches this daily event mostly every day, and again when Luna (the moon) replaces her counterpart.

The birds awaken their voices just before the show of soft rose colored streaks litter the horizon, the curve of the sun has almost conquered the sharp tips of the rocky ridges it lays behind. Ever quietly she breathes and watches. Her healthy, rounded belly gurgles passively amongst the betraying quiet of the pine forest. Chernobyl watches the swooping birds and stirring grasses. She blends into the shadows surrounding her, letting her dark abysmal eyes lay over the clutches of trees dotted throughout a small hilly pasture laying to the southeast of the Falls.

It unravels quickly, before long the sun is halfway over the rocky spires beyond the bitter Steppes. Today the breeze stirs from the there, tickling her dew ridden skin. The thorns twisting around the thick spike protruding from her head seem to horde the droplets of moisture, holding them still even when the lithe mare ducks back into the brush wood behind her. She can hear the wind curl almost violently outside of the shelter of trees, the heat would be kept at bay in the North because of it today.

Too bad she’s headed more south, to the place of grazed down clearings and crowds. Oh but the aspen groves are a nice touch – no one ever seems to wander to that part of the Threshold, and if they do they’re usually lost and alone or interesting…and alone. She avoids the common pathways as she normally has done for the past year or so. It’s time to find some new blood to hang around with, as intolerable as that may sound..she cannot remain skulking in the conifer forest forever.

The trees change over after a few billion (exaggeration, duh) miles. They’re hardwoods like oak and maple, and whatever else she didn’t recognize. It is not as dense just a few paces south of where she’s been camped out for the last eight months, grassy patches of open space seem to thrive randomly in the middle of all the trees. Ponds, lakes and rivers are more common – it’s lush right now, at its tallsun peak. The sun is at it’s highest now, beaming on the heads of the broad-leafed giants while below the black mare is shaded from its power. With the lush moisture and perfect wind resisting forests come bugs. Hellacious, unrelenting dick headed pests.

Sweat, that is all she can smell. Hot, sticky body glaze. It can tell you a lot if you can manage to pick through the smell, but in Chernobyl’s opinion there are much better ways to analyze shit. She moves creepily through the edge of the first field, eyes wide and unblinking behind the plume of thick black forelock draped over her face. It is rather crowded, but luckily the wind is twirling around to keep the biting insects at bay. The black mare finds her spot among the aspens her back to the seemingly empty scene behind her and her eyes scanning the shifting bodies and dancing shadows ahead.

She waits with hungry eyes and a mind that’s been idle for far too long.

But oh, I'm staring at the mess I made
As you turn, you take your heart and walk away