Fleeting Glimpse

Delicate flowers are tied up on the horses for the festivities. The horses gallop and spray the flowers as if they are medieval confetti. All the women in the cinnamon-smelling town wait by their windows in their gowns, except a few who wear nothing but a robe. They wore makeup last night, smudged by their partner or the pillow, waiting for the fresh brew of chamomile tea with sunken eyes.

They all anticipate the glimpse of a dark-armored knight, muddy and withered but shining in their eyes. His horse strutted carelessly, no harm in mistaking it for a fawn due to its size and color. The knight does not even acknowledge the fair maidens and their gifts of nectaresque sweets or hand-sewn bouquets, and could not be less bothered by their amorous perfumes, for his heart lies where a peasant girl sang in unpolished melody and untamed bravery.

The girl kept his heart as a gift without waiting for his approval. It was somewhere in the high, iris-bloomed mountains, by a river that has no name as of yet. He strives to return there for a fleeting glimpse of the woman who was never his and a song that was only his.