O’er glen and dale they had ridden, but never the mossy and grassy mountainside. Justin coaxed his steed to slow her pace a bit, as his ears popped with every stride.
On a whim, he cooed into the breeze,
Sing to me sweetly as I turn sour,
Lay me down remembering…
And his ears deceived him, as he could have sworn he heard the sweetest refrain.
No company awaited Justin, save for the lonely cottages on the mountainside he rode. He lost his swagger, and hummed to himself.
…the wind and the rain played a part in that dreadful hour…
Thanks for the shot, Bjoern.
Muted, but Present. 