You feel elation as you sprint headlong towards rock and the thin cloud of dust that signals the point which has snared your interest. Though your wings are small and the primary feathers which will one day bear the weight of you in flight are still wrapped securely in frail grey sheaths, you fan each limb out to feel rushing air spill around them. It is a feeling you adore already and the tiny round hooves drumming beneath your approach skip and spring occasionally, all for the sake of juvenile delight. There are tree branches woven together above you and their glossy green foliage forms a pretty avenue; so too is cast a wicked web of shadow that wanders backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, along the path you are taking. So light-headed do you feel, giddy and brazen that you forget to check your speed.

Ahead there grows the silhouette of another horse – and the first thing about her that really strikes your notice is her small size. Though taller than you, her curiously hued form pales in comparison to the looming existence of your father, and your long-legged mother in particular. It is well, because there are not many that pass by your den that stir your fancy in such a way. Unfortunately, it is too late before you remember that you must slow down your pace and with eyes widening in light of that error, you bounce and slide to a clumsy halt. In your favour the other horse has stepped from the course you were travelling, perhaps you might have collided if she had not been so swift-witted.

You realise quickly as you turn to view her that she has wings as well - feathered like your mother and your father – and flashes of startling pink draw your tiny quivering nose closer. There seems to be another creature tangled between her legs. It is much smaller than anything you have seen already, and when you notice it in turn, your short, slim neck bows down towards the earth beneath you. Bright yellow eyes examine it curiously and unafraid, because you have been well protected for the length of your short life thus far. Sharp breaths catch wind of its unusual scent and your tiny, furry ears waver expressively. You are surprised by the contrast of it against the familiar waft of home as it instead fills your nostrils.

When your innocent examination dulls beneath failing attention, you glance back to the other like you, but you do not recognise the body language she offers.

Your diluted yellow gaze dances boldly between the golden pools upon her face – they are much like your fathers, though black streaks their centre. The warmth of gold you have learned to trust, and so you step a one long, thin leg nearer as does she; you mirror her example, flaring your paper-thin velvets, entirely oblivious to the breath she draws in the same gesture. As her mostly white expression lightens into a smile (the brightest points attract you, of course), you too smile – still following her lead. You have not yet developed social awareness, aptitude, and you mimic your company with childish precision.

Her lips part suddenly and a sound you are not expecting strikes your engrossed, picked ears. It does not sound like the humming caress of your mother, nor does it bear similarity to the masculine rumble of your father’s comfort – you think it strange, fascinating. “Tem-pe...” you copy artlessly, pulling the familiar sound of name out from the rest. Your mother has explained that word’s relevance – you have learned that “Da...” is the name of the stallion with the golden-gaze, your father; and “Ma...” is the name of the mare with the bright halo, your mother (both you think of aloud in the moment).

Your eyes trail the other filly’s in the meantime, as she guides you towards the little creature, but when she speaks this time no word pulls above the rest. Absorbedly you watch, waiting expectantly, and you glance naively about you to see if you have missed one like it – of your own. She moves though, extending her fine muzzle forward and with roused attention you do the same drawing unintentionally the delicate, alien fragrance that she carries. An exhilarated rumble stirs in your breast and your knobbly knees wobble above motionless hooves. When her voice rises through the tranquillity for the third time you are ready and eager to receive it, though your understanding still falls short, you derive the word you, and your lungs draw air in preparation to respond.

“Zah-a,” you tell her, practically beaming, and then again as a glorious wave of accomplishment bursts through your mind. “Zah-a!”

“Come!” Your voice is effervescent, cheerful, and her unannounced, unaccompanied arrival in your home does not seem to you, to be unusual. You turn lithely upon your toes, and your hocks unleash their small strength to propel you forward and away from the other – in your excitement you forget to look back – she will follow, of course. You weave a path between towering trees but stray unknowingly from the path, where grass thickens for a moment upon it. The scent of your mother – the guide you have been following – fades and you jerk to a standstill, turning hurriedly this way and that in an effort to recover it “Ma...” you whine, turning to find the filly you assume followed, and your body language is helplessly transparent, telling all about the confusion riddling your thoughts.