Her voice is very feminine. I think that it is more so than mother's. Even her faint little hum is girlish, and her pale white coat seems feminine as well. I am not sure why, but I feel like she is most definitely a lady. Mother is different, and maybe that is because she is my mother. This mare, though, was not my mother, and I realize all too suddenly that I am nervous. She is pretty, this lady, and I think that makes me uncomfortable. Mother tells me I am handsome, but I think not. Most horses do not have weird bumps on their forehead like me, and their legs are straighter. Would mine straighten with time? Would my weird forehead growths disappear?

I do not think so. Mother calls me handsome because I am hers, but most would likely disagree. This does not lead me to despair, for I am not overly vain. What I appear to look like on the outside is different from how I feel inside. Outside I am still weak, but inside I am growing very strong, I think. However, this lady looks strong outside and the glint of her crimson eyes makes me think she is not weak of heart either. She is intimidating to me, being so much better.

Her voice is nice, though, even if it makes me feel shy.

The mare understands, from what I gather from her words, and it makes my head pull out from my legs a bit, like a turtle's head poking out cautiously from its shell. I watch her carefully through eyes of green and red, looking at her face that was oddly determined. What was her goal that she was striving for as she spoke? Did it involve me? I think that is a bit egotistical to think, even if I am the only one next to her.

Her movement startles me, making my head dip back down until I realize she is laying on the earth. My head rises slowly from my legs, and my wings ruffle slightly. Those strange hairs sometimes move on their own, I've found. Her question catches me off guard, and I snap my head to look at her sharply, but I do not know how to answer her. My eyes linger on her contented face a moment longer before I slip back to watching the water. As I expected, the scene has already changed.

"I thought about exploring," I say, my voice quiet. "But I can't go far on my legs." I look back toward the white mare, my eyes wide and childlike for the first time in our conversation. They are surprisingly open, and I think this mare has started to win over my trust. I am still nervous, but I keep my eyes locked to hers, afraid that my will would shatter if they strayed. "Will my legs ever be like mother's?"