In the paddock is a pair of mares with their little foals. Frolicking in the buttercups, the foals kicked their heels up in joy.
Charming little things they are, with fur soft as silk. Filled with curiosity they watch and then suddenly turn around and run.
Rolling in the buttercups is like rolling in soft gold. The petals leave their yellow trace on the foal’s back.
The innocence of youth expressed with gentleness. That is what a foal is.