Tolandiel-Roquen

In the puddle-drummed madness of the dawn, we find ourselves soaring - topple-winged and cresting like young colts, the trees closing their eyes at our haste. We gallop, treble-footed and deft, through a green that yawns - the mist clinging, sweet sod of daybreak, and your thrum-breasted heart warm as a tinderbox left beating at my feet.