She dreams that she is the very cloud she sleeps on, drifting in the wind, carrying herself away
guiding that self along and above the streets of her hometown - reflected in familiar windows, buffeted by gusts of old conversations - slowly heading out towards the wild unknown,
she is called elsewhere
and still she drifts long after the pony wakes and leaves her, she drifts timelessly
over lakes and plains and mountain ranges, and a lonely ocean that knows her name, and through the wicked forest to her sisters and brothers who console another her in tears
and up and up to the cities in the sky and over the tiny little ponies in their tiny little homes,
something calls her here
and when the moment feels right she bursts and hurls herself in thousands and thousands of liquid shards upon a cottage late into the night, purposeless but passionate, stuttering and stammering on the windows like she cannot say exactly what she means
(even here and now in this form, with all the power of the world, ineloquence persists)
and the parts drip through the roofing and coalesce on the floor and she forms a new self there, another, a crying blue foal full of life and dreams and so much to say, but
what does any of it mean?
Nothing. It's a dream.
Just keep dreaming.