I had been wandering this territory for several days now. I used my want to explore as an excuse not to make any friends, but eventually my ability to fit through the trees became too limited to be worth much, so I stayed in the general area of the herd. Despite my shyness, I did not have a vast and defined personal space like a few mares I had met before (in this territory and others), so being in close quarters with the others wasn’t a problem for me. I was simply more comfortable with my mouth shut.

Soon enough my quiet routine was interrupted, and for reasons I hadn’t yet discovered I felt the need to leave the herd very late one night. As soon as I could no longer see the others, a violent pressure traveled my stomach and I knew at once what was happening. I was terrified, but not panicked, and I found a clear area of the forest floor that was soft with long grass. I lowered my body and told myself to let the process happen.

As the hours passed, I forgot how to be afraid and focused only on not crying out in pain. I felt as if this body pushing its way out of mine was bigger than it was supposed to be; I felt as if this should have happened earlier, perhaps several days earlier.

Nevertheless, as the sun rose and began to glitter on the dew-coated grass that striped my vision, something was rustling about near my tail. I peered over the no longer mountainous horizon of my girth to see a pile of legs trying to untangle itself. The foal stumbled and rolled and finally, with a furious and victorious squeal, arranged his limbs beneath him and promptly tripped the second it seemed he was balanced.

I myself had some difficulty rising, and my body was achy and sore. But as the colt took his first too-fast steps and tripped once again, I felt a proud sort of amusement. He was less interested in a meal than he was in traveling anywhere and everywhere as fast as possible, so I did my best to herd his klutzing self back to the others.