The Little Horse & the Little Fox

The light grows dim on the mossy stone,
as Iceland's day is nearly done.

The Little Horse, with a shaggy mane,
grazes slow on the misty plain.

The Little Fox, so soft and small,
trots along an old stone wall.

She crosses sand as black as coal,
past waves that whisper and waves that roll.

A waterfall hums, far and low,
its white water catching the last of the glow.

Steam rises soft from a warm spring pool,
where the two of them meet in the evening cool.

The horse bends low, the fox sits still,
side by side on the quiet hill.

Below, a farmhouse glows red and gold,
its windows bright against the cold.

Green lights ripple across the sky,
curling and swaying, drifting by.

The horse finds hay by the old stone wall,
the fox finds moss in the lava's fall.

And now it's time, my little one,
to rest like they have, day is done.

Wrapped up warm and snug and tight,
Iceland whispers... goodnight, goodnight.