What is this before my eyes? The pond bit my nose when I bent to drink this morning.
It was silent and still and hard as rock but it shattered beneath my vexed hoof afterwards
like stone, startling me into a panicked run.
What is this unkind wind that blows through my thin ebony coat? Even the trees of the
forest seem angry. They are turning all red and gold against the sky and all of them
throw acorns and pine cones on top of you whenever you pass too slowly underneath
them. Only the squirrels are happy!
