In The Time Before Sound, There Were Horses

 The air is still cold enough to sting when I breathe it in. It sits on the back of my throat like smoke, sharp but clean. The grass crunches beneath my feet, a brittle whisper against the hush of dawn. Mist clings to the wooden rails that run the length of the field, the boards damp, grain raised by night air. I trail a hand across one as I walk, feeling the slickness of dew, the splinters that refuse to soften even under years of weather.

The horses stand quiet beyond the fence, dark shapes inside the fog. They move slow, heads bent to the earth, the steady rhythm of their grazing more felt than heard. Steam curls from their nostrils... thick, white, alive against the dim. Their tails swish lazily, slicing the stillness. One lifts its head toward me, and for a moment, the whole world feels smaller. The quiet doesn’t break; it deepens.

The scent here is layered: wet wood, grass torn open by hooves, and the faint sweetness of hay that lingers on their coats. The fence smells of earth and time. The kind of smell that stays under your nails long after you’ve left. I breathe through it, slow, the chill biting the edges of my lips. The morning light begins to crawl across the field, not bright yet, just a thin gold ribbon trying to find its way through.

I stop near the center post, where the ground dips slightly. There’s a puddle from last night’s rain, and the reflection trembles with every small gust of wind. The air hums quietly—somewhere between silence and breath. I can hear the creak of the fence settling, the soft shift of weight as one horse steps forward, pressing against the boards as if to test their strength.

The fog begins to thin, and color bleeds back into the world. The horses’ coats turn to copper, their manes brushed with light. Each blade of grass glows as though lit from inside. I can feel the damp seeping through my shoes, but I don’t move. The day feels both young and ancient, like I’ve walked into a memory that was waiting for me to arrive.

The world is quiet, but not empty. Every sound: the chew of grass, the faint groan of wood, the slow warmth in my chest... becomes part of the same rhythm. It’s not peace exactly, but something deeper. A moment where I stop trying to hold anything, and the world, for once, holds me back.

And then, as I blink, it all folds inward.

The horses blur, the light draws itself away,

and when my eyes open again,

the only thing that remains

is the cold, hazy air..

a trace of breath,

and the quiet that never really left.