Grass Ponies

The second cut harvest has started and already the intoxicating smell of curing hay is wafting through Ponyville and in my balcony doors. I am expecting yaks to appear at any moment, pulled all the way from Yakyakistan by the aroma. I've been eating fresh bread slathered with generous amounts of apple butter to take my mind off of all that glorious fresh cut hay. It's not working. I'm not the only pony to whom the hay calls. Foals are out under the cover of darkness, making grass ponies in the fields. I can hear them giggling and whispering in the still night air. I can't see them, but I saw a few more shooting stars flash by silently in the southern part of the sky. They are remembering us, remembering that they were ponies, remembering the joy and freedom of galloping with the wind in your mane. I think mid summer is my favorite time of year.