Being alive was a carnival in and of itself. Roman didn’t know hardship, but he knew the air nipped colder around his fetlocks when he played, and the grass crunched when he woke in the morning. Something was happening, and he didn’t know if he liked it.

He bunched his body into a crow-hop, bouncing his way along the riverbank as if his half hearted play could drive off the cold. Small hooves struck at the air with a spirited buck, though his cavorting nearly knocked him over on landing. Slick river stone wasn’t the safest to practice his footing, he noted with a sharp snort, laying back his ears.

’tupid rock. He mumbled to it with a stomp, though that only served to wedge the stone painfully against his frog. With a hiss, the boy bounced away, shaking his hoof and pouting.

Owie! Roman screamed at the stone, though that did little to move it. Its face remained still, not even an apology leaving it.