Work Text:
Dozing on a summer's afternoon, sometimes I dream that the years roll back to the beginning. In my dream I see a young foal—not myself, for I have, after all, been luckier than many—but a chestnut filly: wide-eyed, wobbly, and new to the world. I dream she is born into a kind place, touched only by patient hands; she grows up sweet-tempered in her innocence, never having cause to bite, kick, or fear. Is such possible, if not in the past then in some unknown future? A horse cannot say; we hope only for the mercy of Fate.