Hear Now The Song Of My People

It was rough getting up early to watch the meteors dash across the sky, but worth it. There were a few frisky ones that streaked quite high overhead, but most stuck to the horizon. When the twilight brightened the skies, sending the shooting stars and the constellations scooting to their daytime haunts, I picked myself up and descended the flights of stairs out into the morning mists. I walked alone through the green fields of growing timothy grass, Ponyville's finest, wet and silvery with dew. The southern birds were awake too, singing their claims of virility and territorial ownership, ready and willing to take on any that dared challenge either. I lay claim to a patch of tall wet grass, and ate it. My song was the rhythmic ripping and chewing of the green stems I harvested. Breakfast.