The sky is black, the stars pinpricks of light surrounding all overhead. I whistle softly through my teeth for Midnight, wondering if he'll hear, doubting he'll come. Yet then suddenly I see his form moving towards me, darker in the darkness, stopping a way away to make sure it is in fact someone he knows and can trust to approach before closing further.
He stands so close I can hear the breath escaping his nostrils. He touches his nose to my outstretched fingers, nuzzling my arm next, wanting the halved apple I hold in my other hand. I ask him if he's been a good horse and does he really miss me, or just the apple, and he snorts once, impatiently, at the delay. So I give it to him, by halves, offering the apple on my upturned palm, feeling his eager lips on my skin as he takes it before backing quickly away, as if suddenly afraid he's been baited and tricked. Poor Midnight, I think, knowing what he can perhaps only dimly suspect, that something is up. Tomorrow this time he'll be gone from here.