The stone falls in the pool, the ripples spread. The colt in the Long Meadow kicked up his heels. “That was a fly,” he thought, “It’s early for flies.” But being alive, in April, was too fine For flies or anything else to bother a colt. He kicked up his heels again, this time in pure joy, And started to run a race with the wind and his shadow. After the stable stuffiness, the sun. After the straw-littered boards, the squelch of the turf. His little hoofs felt lighter than dancing-shoes, He scared himself with a blue-jay, his heart was a leaf. He was pure joy in action, he was the unvexed Delight of all moving lightness and swift-footed pace, The pride of the flesh, the young Spring neighing and rearing.