Fresh Breeze and Green Clover

The back screen door was left cracked open just wide enough for a determined pony nose. With one firm nudge of my muzzle, I slipped through and stepped out onto the warm cedar planks. The morning breeze caught my mane right away, tossing it loose in a way no living room could ever manage. Two low steps down, a patch of real green clover was waiting. I trotted down, my hooves tapping crisply against the wood before sinking into the soft turf. A proper pony belongs where the grass grows, not cooped up beside sleeping dolls—and nobody even had to open the gate for me.