As soon as the dew was off the grass this morning, ponies have been pulling their clattering sickle bar mowers through the timothy fields all around Ponyville, carving out steadily diminishing rectangles in the sea of green and enveloping the castle in the aroma of fresh cut grass. From the commanding view of my balcony, the slow crawl of the harvesters is hypnotic. The heady, delicious smell that wafts up in the warm air has had me salivating all day. I can't wait for the hay to cure and get baled. Further away, I can see a field dotted with rolls of hay fermenting in starch polymer bags. It's pretty, but it doesn't have the allure of drying hay.