The stallion is white.

From the trees he appears,
Galloping, calmly, happily,
Flying as light as a feather in the wind.
At the crest of the mountain opposite, he stops.
His dark eyes stare at the white horse,
Like an owl - wisely.
It will be a fight neither can win.
He arches his neck, then lifts his head.
His mane and tail also sail in the wind,
The eery silence twists and turns around him.
He hesitates, he paces, snorting,
As if trying to find another way around,
But he cannot. It is inevitable.
He rears and neighs one loud cry
And answers the challenge.

The stallion is black.

For a moment, they just look silently at each other,
Staring, across the cold enmity between them,
Then together, as if some telepathy had told them,
They both barrel down the side of their thrones,
Dangerously slipping and sliding,
Over the loose stones of the steep slopes,
And yet seemingly in control.

They meet.
They circle each other.
Nostrils flared, teeth bared in readiness.
They flick their tails angrily,
And stand tall,
Stretching their legs and neck,
Muscles bulging.

The White strikes,
First a flick of his heels,
Then as the Black draws nearer,
He lashes out with is powerful hind legs,
And turns his head, ready to snap his teeth,
The Black reacts with a squeal and rears,
Pounding is fore-legs on the White’s back.
He is small, but swift as lightning;
The White is large and strong, but not nearly as agile.
The Black, though not so strong,
Dances with triumph as he, again and again,
Escapes the White’s strong but slow thrusts.
Several times they exchange blows,
Each weakening the other at every turn,
Neither, gaining in power over the other.

It is the Black who first falls,
How could he not? when the White’s large frame
Crushes him, making his legs cave beneath him?
Smothering him?
He drops to his knees, and
With a final grunt, is rolled onto his side.
His breathing is heavy and laboured.
He blinks, he stares defiantly yet confidently at the White towering over him.
But the White does not win - he cannot.
The Black knew it all along.
He has not strength left to finish him off.
The White totters for a moment,
And crumples to the ground.

A last rasping breath echoes throughout the hills.

1997