Yesterday, the ponies finished their first harvest of rainbow-colored apples, and now they pull a wagon towards me. I do not know why they cross this ocean of grass, but they cannot wish to chop me down for lumber. There are countless trees better than I in that strange forest, and they move past every one of them. Perhaps they have some magical purpose in mind, but I cannot imagine what it would be.
When they arrive, they pull food from their wagon and sit on a blanket in my shade. Not one of them has axes or saws.
The little ones chase each other and laugh. The older ones talk. One seems to be telling a story. This must be a feast for them. They eat many of the strange apples, in a dozen different ways. Raw apples, mashed and spiced apples, apples wrapped in big flaky bread, apples wrapped in little crispy bread.
After a time, they slow down and become quiet. The sun is high now, and the day is warm for autumn. Some of them lean against one another and talk quietly. The little ones snuggle against their parents. A big one leans against my trunk and falls asleep.
I am certain they could easily tell that I am rotten to the core. None of them have bothered to search into me. It reminds me of the tall pony. They simply enjoy my shade, or chatter away.
They all seem happy. Strange magic indeed.