The sun beat down upon the cool grass of the western Cimarron. A gust of wind blew a warm breeze gently through the plains, stirring the leaves on the trees and swirling the hairs on the herd's mains and tails. One horse looked up, to look for predators, then lowered its head once more to graze on the sweet summer grass. The eagle, a familiar neighbour to the horses on the grasslands, soared over with a shrill greeting. In the distance the tumbling of white water could be heard in the mountains, and it rushed into the river, cooling the buffalo that stood there. At the top of the hill was a small outcrop of land, where a fine, golden buckskin stallion, would stand watch over his family.

But not today. Today he was pacing back and forth, nerves raw and heart pounding. How much longer would it be? Nightfall, he had to wait till nightfall, then it would happen. He snorted, and continued to pace, and even though it was baking hot in the July sun, he felt cold with anxiety. His mother stepped in front of him to grab his attention, and gave him a calming look. He was grateful for it, and swapped duties with her and went to check on the herd instead.

He woke with a start, realising he had dozed off. It was a navy blue night, and the moon shone bright above with any stars that were not faded out. Faintly, the Milky Way glistened like a diamond necklace across the sky, and it reflected in the water and in each horses' eyes. By now it was a lot cooler, and some mares had lay down to catch the fading heat from the ground. A stiff wind blew from the north, this time chilling and unwelcome. He shivered, and made his way up the hill back to his mother and mare.

She was struggling, he could see that. He lay down next to her, for support and reassurance. Her white and brown sides were heaving with the effort, and he hated it when she cried out. But soon, the worst was over, and their herd had grown. The tiny filly blinked a few times and nuzzled her parents. The mare promptly got up followed by the stallion, and after a receiving a few tender licks, the filly attempted to follow, but fell down again almost instantly. The stallion nickered in a sort of chuckle, and nudged the new born from behind to help her. She quickly got to her feet, and her markings were clearer.

She had the most beautiful golden coat, similar to that of her father's, with a creamy mane inherited from her mother. She was palomino, with pale stockings and a wide, white stripe down her face. Her hooves were pale and almost pink, the same flesh colour of the inside of her ears and nostrils. But the most curious and stunning feature of her, were the green eyes that shone like jewels on her gentle face.

My life began in a calm and peaceful world. Animals of the wild were left alone, and nature was balanced and fair. The rivers ran clean and freely, any dams blocking or detouring it were built to shelter residents of the wild. Grass grew long and sweet, and was only cut down by the grazing of herbivore beasts. The eagle would fly over the mountains, which only had caves that were naturally occurring. No man had ever set foot on our herd's territory. You could tell by the sheer beauty of the plains, with the rugged mountains south and west, and the valley to the east. It would simply be described as a haven for creatures that wish to be protected.

But my father often told me of stories about mankind. Of his adventures and how he met my mother. How he defeated the plans of humans and won the respect of a colonel. I listened intently with the other foals and could forget the world for a while and imagine what lay beyond our home. I never dreamt of travelling, but I was certainly curious about the rest of the world.

As I grew bigger and stronger my father taught me all he knew. We began with basics when I was about a year old. He took me down to the water and told me to look at the river. He asked me, what did I see? I said that I could see my reflection, and he looked at his own, thinking for a while. Then he said:

"You are young and inexperienced. That isn't a bad thing, though, it means you can learn, and that you can become anything because you have a clean past. Your first years are your greatest gift, and you should use them wisely. In a few years time, you won't be able to see the same picture as you can now. Your looks will change with your life. Even then, you will only see the reflection of your mind, not your face."

I understood little of what he said, but I accepted it. I trusted him that I would realise it within time. A few months later, he asked me to have a race with him. I will never forget that race, there are many reasons why. One may be that I treasure it as a father-daughter memory, another would be a personal achievement.  But whatever the reason, it was thrilling. I remember him standing level with me, and suddenly leaping into a canter. He stayed level with me at first, advising me on how to save energy and be more powerful in my stride. It was morning when he began to train me, and by late afternoon, I was galloping full tilt without being crippled for breath. It was then that he decided I was ready to test.

The wind was behind us and so was the setting sun. Ahead stretched miles of brown, withered grass, and the fresh scent of cool water. Somehow, we both knew when to go, without any warning, and we ran. We ran for what must have been minutes, before I continued to speed ahead, and he stopped behind to admire me. I could almost believe I was flying with the eagle as he swooped over me and pulled at my main playfully. When I realised I was alone, I skidded to a halt and waited for him to catch up while I caught my breath from the long sprint. He was pleased with my progress, and we walked down to the water to drink. The freezing liquid soothed my sore throat and relaxed me. On the other side of the river the herd dozed in the fading light. Exhausted, I collapsed next to my friends and fell into a deep sleep. The dream that followed has stayed in my mind for years.

Horses ran through soft grass that reached up to stroke their bellies, and the herd twisted and turned trough it, like schools of fish, their colours shining from the moonlight. Dapple greys, chestnuts, bays, buckskins, palominos, swekbalds, piebalds, they all galloped in unison, trampling the grass to stamp down the grasping fingers. One by one, they all dropped away from the group and stood still. High above, an eagle watched, viewing the pattern that had appeared. It was almost a mirror image to that majestic bird: a bald eagle, wings spread wide, as if trying to touch something beyond reality. As the wind picked up, and the grass blew gently, it appeared to be flying.

I woke, startled, at the peculiar vision. Closing my eyes, and bowing my head, I tried to uncover its secret meaning. But like many dreams, it quickly faded, and I was left to slumber once more.It must have been the race that caused it. All that running, and the eagle flying with me. I never looked back on it until years later.

As I grew I learnt more and more. After basic work like tracking the herd, being aware of predators and staying clear of traps, I was taught about my role. A lead mare does all the safety work, such as being first to drink at water holes and stepping foot in a forest before anyone else. I would obviously have a stallion of my own one day, but at that point I wasn't interested. I was close friends with the colts of our herd (there were no fillies aside from me), and I could never see them and me as a couple, with children, never mind leading the herd! I was a gangly foal with a rugged mane, messy coat and curly tail, but over time I became taller, stronger, smoother, and altogether more attractive. Yet still I had no interest in the young males. At three and a half years of age, I was almost fully grown, and could feed and fend for myself.

And still the work continued. I enjoyed it, the part that I spent with my father, precious days that I could never get back, but I must admit that I do think he pushed me too hard at times. I recall one lesson, on long distance jumping, we started easy, and got harder and harder as I succeeded. We were using the river as a jump. Any horse can leap about three metres if they wanted to, maybe even five if they really put their back into it. But this is my father we are talking about. He has repeatedly told me of his adventures, and how he jumped the canyon. Big whoop. He had to. He may have given me very long run ups, but I still couldn't reach the goal he set for me. We continued long into the night, him watching me fail over and over again, my embarrassment and shame increasing by the minute. I had let him down.

That night I was exhausted and was ready to sleep until noon the following day. But one thing kept me awake, the sound of arguing in the distance. My mother and grandmother were stressing to my father how hard he had been pushing me, and how I would react if I felt a failure. How, if the level of training went on much longer, I would not be able to keep my health up. It was all true, every word of it. But I didn't hate my father, I was disappointed with him, but I could never wish harm on him. And so, as the harsh words faded out, I began to sleep.

Later that year I reached my fourth birthday. There was no celebration, it wasn't in our tradition, but everyone knew it. Especially the young males. I suddenly found myself in a world where all the males trotted with high legs when they went past me, and play fought to get my attention. Several of them made moves, but I just wasn't interested. None of them were...right.

I was no longer hounded by lessons. Instead, I did my part to protect the herd, to lead and to scout. I found it the most boring time of my life, but it is the main bulk of a