Fog

It was one of those days. A day so typical of Ooty during the rainy season. A day where you know in your mind that the earth has features, but your eyes tell you that nothing exists aside from a great expanse of grey, which muffles each sound, and seems to slow time.
Standing in the paddock with Hercules, it felt as though the mountains and the tea fields beyond the fence had vanished, melting into the fog. Usually, there are constant sounds from the village below, and from traffic on the road. But there was nothing aside from the sounds that we made. The crunch of gravel beneath our feet, the swish of the rope telling Hercules to speed up, and my own commands to him. Even coming out of my mouth, they seemed muffled and faint. Everything felt close together, and interwoven.
It felt for a time as though the rest of the world was gone, and all that had been left was this tiny island on the side of the mountain, inhabited by myself and one little pony.
After a time, the fog cleared, blown away by the wind, and the world came into being once more. Voices carried up to where Hercules and I worked. I heard the sound of a bus conductor's whistle, and the crowing of roosters. The world had returned. And, while the colours and the view were spectacular as usual, there seemed to be something missing in the enormity of it all.