the pacific
It is disarmingly silent. Thick. Air and mountain combined, it advances with age-old indifference.
Out of this darkness, they emerge. Manes feathering into a silken sky, they curve down from the precipice, waiting. Surveying.
Then they charge.
THUNDER — pounding themselves into foamy oblivion. Their manes toss one last challenge at the heavens before melting into a carpet of bubbles, sucked away by ever thirsting sand.
Another wave approaches, stunted by comparison. (Ponies.) As if aware of the insult, they rear back, mouths frothing, and kick. Down and out their legs lash — the wave’s elegant spine snaps in a hundred places and it comes roaring down in a white fury, burying them all.
Their remains roll back out on the tide, knuckled under by the incoming sweep of hooves. Roll. (Fade.) Roll. (Fade.) A fresh battalion approaches, rumbling in anticipation of glory.
The wind whips their manes into watery ribbons that dance against the muted light of sun-pierced clouds. Sweating foam, they climb and climb. Bleeding spray, they mount. (Mounted by no one.) Then they leap —
In slow motion, the wave reaches around and forces a dagger into its own heart.
Twisting crash after crash after crash as the front line buckles majestically. Thunder — trampling each other in their haste. The ghost of one vaults thinly into the air, droplets disappearing against the muted sky.
(Reclaimed.)