When the stallion trots around me I turn my body to continue facing him and laugh as he stomps in the sand. It looks like fun. I try it, but find it doesn’t work as well where the beach is dry. I turn to pounce on the damp sand at my back and shout in triumph as my little hooves sink deep. It’s wet and dense beneath, and as he speaks I tug myself free to face him again just as he jumps away and performs a backwards kick with all four feet off the ground. "Wow," I breathe, wide-eyed.
His breath tickles. I focus on the way he lifts and then places each leg, and do as he suggests. The steps are easy, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out the rhythm as I follow his pace. My grin grows when I look up at him. "I’m dancing! Look!" And then, excited, I leap away and try my own kick like the one he did earlier. It’s a lot harder than it looks and I stumble a couple of times, knees buckling as I try to simultaneously jump and kick. It’s easier to run and buck, and I revert to that familiar action as I gambol around the stallion.
I splash through the water slipping up the beach and stop, reminded of his grand entrance. I whip my whole body around to confront him, quivering with the intensity of my question. "How did you do that, before? When you came up to me— walking in FatherSound’s mouth like that. Why didn’t he eat you?" |