I could not help but smile warmly at him, at his obvious enthusiasm that seemed to sparkle and emanate from him in great passionate waves. Even as he backs away, wings gesturing towards himself, as if beckoning to me to leap forward in a whirl of sparkling blue wings, somehow he seems boisterous and child-like, prepared and unprepared. I wonder if he would let the physical attraction he saw in me cloud his dark eyes, losing the sharpness and acuity he could guess attacks were coming from. Somehow, I doubted this stallion, however primitive, could lose sight of his main goal- to defeat me.

For no matter how simple and plain the goal may be at first, unadorned by ornamental bluffs and feints, or the reasonings to hold back from truly hurting your herdmate- the drive to win remained powerful and steadfast. Whether or not it may be just a game, just a little spar at the time, it builds up. If you did not learn from your mistakes, you risked something more than just a scrape on that day of small war. One day, it might cost you a broken leg, a shattered skull, or a split spine. In other words, today every second I needed to pay firm attention to what was happening, even if the consequences seemed small.

My thoughts ramble and run around in circles, the dog chasing its tail, and I inhale, exhale, shake my head and let them fall away, to live in the moment, just the moment.

To begin fights, horses often shuffle hind-end to hind-end, lashing out and exchanging a series of kicks and squeals; but I stand facing him, the water tranquil on my right, lapping gently at the shore, a lazy murmur. The grass, dead, is a slick mat beneath me, although even; hopefully my hooves will dig in through the weeds to the hard soul below, and my feet will grip.

I flash forwards, trying to remain smooth and flawless in the execution of my movement, hooves digging into the ground as I rear upwards facing him, wings flaring open in a display of both intimidation and, I hope, a slightly disorientating way. My sails help me keep my balance as I hope to embrace him in my flailing front legs. For no matter how movies portray it, our legs do not gorgeously churn the air in odd perfection, no, it's a mad clawing motion frequently lacking in accuracy, an attempt to keep our balance in place. Should the dark stallion, who is but a little taller than me and of heavier muscle, likely leading to a greater hand in strength, engage with me, I will try and push all my weight onto him, and so throw him off balance; and then I would snap at his neck.

And if- if- he were not engage, I should hope to smash him firmly on the soft flesh of his nose.

I drop to all fours, and hurry forward uneloquently several paces, kicking out at his left flank- so I move to the right, in other words.

Word Count: 516