Stepping Across the Stepping Stones

I pushed past the wooden garden gate and headed down the dirt aisle between the raised planter beds. Ahead, someone had set a line of thick wooden tree-trunk rounds right across a damp patch of soil. I stopped at the rim, lowering my muzzle to catch the sharp scent of damp pine bark. With patient care, I lifted my right forehoof and planted it squarely onto the rough rings of the first wooden disc. It remained firmly anchored, rough and sturdy against my shoe. I shifted my balance forward, stepping from one round to the next, letting out a steady, rhythmic breath as I crossed cleanly to the dry path beyond.