A Harvest Moon
If it wasn't so cold, the mare at the top of the hill might have enjoyed it.
She loved autumn - her favorite season - but at times like these it almost seemed that frost littered the ground and crackled beneath her hooves. Much too cold for an October night.
She folded in her vestigal brown wings and shook before settling down in a patch of deep grass, watching the moon and the lake continue their trivial games.

And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands.
- T.S. Eliot
Evil is plotting your death. Cold is not caring you died.