The Last Horse

Dara follows the black horse through the woods. Snowdrops crowd round silver birches. Stark sun shines between striped trunks.

The horse walks slowly, picking at the lush grass. Dara's heart drums in her ears. She needs to record this: there have been no sightings for thirty years. Its legs sweeping through the undergrowth are the loudest noise in the woods.

She puts her hands to the camera at her neck, trying to absorb some of the animal's calmness. She doesn't want it to bolt. It's dangerous outside the woods.

Fingers clasped around her camera, she watches the animal, its muscles working beneath its skin. It seems impossible that they were ever harnessed by man.

She lifts the camera to her eye and the black horse stops. Dark eyes searching. She zooms in. The horse's hide gleams black in the sunlight. She focuses and the horse jerks its tail. She releases the shutter.

The noise echoes round the woods. A crow bursts from the top of a birch and the horse darts into the woods, hooves banging the ground. Birds beat from the trees into the sky. Dara stands, camera frozen, listening to the horse disappear.

Outside the woods, gunfire is starting up again. She makes her way back to camp.