A Falling Ember

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The world seems to pick up on my feelings. The sky is bright blue and there isn't a cloud in it. The pale winter sunlight isn't warm, but I don't mind. I am in a big prairie, the long grass reaching up to my chest. It is so long that it is sticking almost three feet out of the light snow. Surrounding the circle of prairie are more mountains. Boy, there sure are a lot of mountains in Wyoming. I feel the ground change under my hooves from powdery snow to pebbles. I am at the edge of a beautiful frozen pond. Some parts of the pond are melting, showing clear blue water underneath. It is a place of tranquility. I tap the ice with my hoof and it doesn't crack. I rear and bring both of my front hooves crashing down on the ice. It shatters and I have sudden deja vu. I remember doing the exact same thing at our winter place when I was a foal. I wonder if Patience or Buckle are doing the same thing right now. It's been a long time since I've actually thought about my herd. I've been pretty busy.
Mama, with her gentle eyes and light grey fur, the one who raised me and loved me. Birch, shy and sweet, my best friend. Father, majestic and proud, the leader of the herd. And all of the others.
I miss them like crazy.
I take a long sip from the frigid water. It's so cold that it burns my tongue. I set off again through the prairie, my energy replenished.

Two hours later, I'm past the mountains, and standing in some kind of dirt plain. The ground is speckled with low shrubs and sparse grass. This place is familiar, but not home. I nibble at some shrubs, but they are dry and bitter. I am in the mood for some nice, sweet clover.
Suddenly I lift my head in shock. This is the same field where my herd and I were captured! The mountains at the far end of the plain are the same ones that Mystic called from when we were in captivity. I rear and buck in excitement. When I hit the ground, I wince. The scratches on my side, wrapped in gauze, are still there. I'll deal with that later. I put my muzzle to the ground and sniff at the snow. The scent of hundreds of wild horses is still there. I've been gone for three months, and it has lasted the whole time.
My heart aches.
I toss my forelock out of my eyes, scratch my leg with my hoof, and set off trotting across the flat land. About ten minutes later I gaze at an enormous plot on the ground that is scuffled and dug out. That was the wild horse prison. I shudder and move on.
I reach the shade of the mountains and I sigh in relief. The pine scent of the steep hills is welcoming and familiar. I start to canter through a low pass between two small mountains, and I see a mountain goat standing on a rocky overhang.
"Hi!" I whinny to the goat. He scampers off into the rocks.
As I get past the mountains and stare across the rolling hills and sprinkles of woods, I wonder where I am going to go. To our winter place, where the herd is now? Or to our spring and summer and fall place? Winter is almost over, after all. Will they recognize me?
I look down at the ground, at the already melting snow. The grass is still yellow, but it's visible. I'll go to our spring place, and when the herd comes trotting back...I'll be there.
The vision is clear in my mind, of horses squealing in happiness and warm muzzles caressing, and my heart lifts. I haven't seen a wild horse in a long time.
I head north, past pine trees and bare skeletons of oaks. I canter past the cliff wall that we sprinted past on the way to the prison. I make my way through more low prairies and past rivers with chunks of ice floating in them.
Then I see it.
It's our beautiful valley, ringed with resplendent mountains, and the lovely brook and grove of oaks.
The sky is bright blue, and white fluffy clouds circle the mountains. It's wild, it's lush, it's untouched.
It's home.