in the mists on the glen
it calmly drank there
from a glistening stream
branch break then
she paused so fair
horn majesticly agleam

sniffing the air
she began again
with an air of content
she was no mere mare
no need to feign
for she knows scent

friend and foe alike
she'll not be caught
dissappear, she might
avoiding a tike
drawn by maiden distraught
without her, blight

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Scarlatan, in the year 685 AF.