Horns locked, muscles surging, hooves lashing out
Somehow this grin can't be lost
Horns like licked-thin candycanes, curved to aim for the ground
Easilly captured in the wild branches, lost in a forest of tines
No blood is shed, no flesh torn
Respect and friendship only grows.
Strategy and instinct entwined,
Throwing back his head, he sets himself free
Well capable of slipping in another strike
Hooves crash down
and stomp into the torn soil below
They take a step back, and in unison, bow
raise and step foreward again
and meet in the middle with a nuzzle
"Good fight, my friend"
Who would have thought
The quiet gray fawn
And the young knight
Would become as sparring partners
And the best of friends.