It was early spring when the Framer’s prized mare, Gracie dropped her foal, but it was after the large pines dropped their leaves that her Morgan was given the greatest honors. It was winter now, a season the young Morgan knew nothing about.
“Mother” The young thing asked “what are those little things out there?”
He stuck his snout out at the fallen shards that fell slow and patient, like feathers fading to the grown.
His mother giggled at him “the Farmer and all his farm-hands call the shards of sky, snow” She grinned wirily “Snow my Morgan”
“Snow” the young Morgan repeated in a lilt nay.
His mother suddenly huffed “Promise me Morgan that you will not set one hoof on that snow”. She forced him to promise. Morgan came away from the window, wishing that he hadn’t promised at all.
When the farm-hand had arrived late that night to switch the straw the colt still had white fluffs falling in his dreams. Even with his eyes shut he could still see the flakes as easily as ever. “Snow” he replayed the word in his head, picturing himself leaping in a large bed of it smeared over the gated valley, giggling to the fluffs. How he wished to leave the stall.
Morgan gave a light sniffle and fell slowly and patiently into a deep sleep. There was a slight creak of wood but the bitty colt only took it as a dream, he had imagined the gate door swaying open so many times, naturally he saw it as another dream hanging around him still. There was another creak and a cold wind blew into his stall. He awoke intently, his hair fixed straight. He pulled himself up from his hay and walked towards the door. There was a well sized crack. He shook his head knocking off the sleep expecting his dreams to fall out and a closed stall door would be waiting there, but it wasn’t so. He peered his long face over the stall walls. All were dozing. He put his snout between the crack and shoved the door open with ease. He trotted softly down the stable hall. The main door did the same. And without hesitation he patted his black hooves on the snow proudly. Cold chips of ice landed upon his coat, he shook them passionately. This is why it was so cold! He was overjoyed, frantic, and ready to see how far his hooves could take him without his mother watching. He bolted. Why had his mother been worried, Morgan was perfectly safe in “snow”? Oh how he loved that word “snow” he sang it to himself as he trotted all around the boarders of the fence.
He kept bolting and turning and laughing blindly till he foolishly ran out of sight of the fence, although Morgan did not know. The warm sun beat into the chilly air as the colt bolted. He would be happy to know that back at the barn his mother was still asleep planning for a cold winter even in her dreams. And earlier a farm-hand had come to inspect the barn as soon as he glimpsed the first stall he was running out the red doors to the Farmer. Panting he sputtered “The…the…the colt…not…ain’t”
The Farmer looked at him irritably. “LET IT OUT BOY” he shouted.
The farm-hand wheezed “colt ain’t there…gone”. The Farmer’s eyes widened. That was a fresh foal, born late in the spring. It hadn’t been broken in for a saddle let alone a harsh winter. Oh how fair and black that young Morgan was. And it was so small still and with all that power brewing in its legs. It was one of the Farmer’s best investments. And his steady mare couldn’t be expected to birth another. Not this soon. The Farmer had thought. What was he to do? He couldn’t let it happen again.
“Who was last in the barn before you Mark” he shouted with authority at the farm-hand. Mark had stopped panting now and stood tall in the presence of the Farmer.

“I…I think Fin was sir, he set out the straw last night” Mark was hesitant to snitch on the other boy but if he did not when the Farmer learned the truth there would be a worse punishment for the both of them. The Farmer nodded and silently set out for a punishment; sending Mark off to his chores.

It was starting to get cold, thought the young Morgan. He shivered as he twisted around looking for the fence that was the border of the Farmer’s land. He had long since passed that border. “Where is the fence?” he whispered innocently to himself as he tried to curl his legs up against his body to stay warm. There was only the wind to answer him. “Where is the, b-barn?” he asked shivering. This time not even the wind answered. He knew now that he had gone too far from it. Tears began to run down his cheeks he started to cry for his mother, but she was nowhere in sight. In fact where Morgan sat, there was void in every direction all except for a wall that the young stallion was leaning against to stay warm. Soon the snow iced into his skin so deeply he could no longer cry. For each tear was beginning to freeze. It would certainly kill him if he kept at this crying. So instead he insisted on running and bolting through the snow trying to drive out the cold. If any flakes touched his coat, he’d snap at them, fighting them off. If his father had saw him then, deep inside his heart he would be proud to see how his son kicked at the blowing winds in a wild fashion that naiad “Get back”. Morgan’s father was a feral horse who distasted the white men of Europe. He was a Spanish bred horse, and missed his roots often. Both the young Morgan and his father were pure fighting stallions.
“Whose colt?” asked a man among a group of equals. Morgan sneezed and tried to hold in his tears. An audience was the last thing he wanted. A fresh blanket of flakes stabbed into his black cult, he bolted away from them.
“I think the little fellows afraid of the snow” called another man. “He isn’t winter-broken. It isn’t play with the little fellow at all.”
“I doubt even his mother could tell him,” called the eldest “‘Sakes it’s only weather.’ He’d think she didn’t know” they all laughed in agreement.
“Where is his mother?” asked another. “He can’t be out alone” the group fell silent. The colt’s load trotting was the only sound. Some watched him shiver others listen for his wheezes. “Whoever it is that leaves him out so late, when other creatures have been sent to stall and bin, ought to be told to come and take him in”
The strangers soon passed, leaving the colt alone again.

“So tell me Tuner, why were you so set on me being here” asked the Farmer. Farmer was probably rubbing bruises into his arms in an effort to keep warm. The cold air made his eyes water, freezing his brittle eyelashes, he rubbed them irritably. The Farmer’s mare had been up early that morning biting and kicking at anyone who came near her, even his best farm hand Mark.
“She thinks you sold her baby Sir” was Mark only exlpaination.
“I didn’t touch her baby” the Farmer fumed. “You know that Mark”
Sympathetically Mark called out, “But she don’t know that Sir”
“Then let her know” the Farmer hissed.
Ever since that incident the Farmer’s day had been hectic. And now the old Mr. Turner was set on the Farmer freezing out in the yard of the old man’s property. The Farmer hugged his body strongly, squeezing out the cold. “Well Turner” coughed the Farmer.
“Well Farmer there was a little surprise in my shed last night” Mr. Turner lifted his heavy boots and headed toward the shed. The kook still carrying the shovel he buried graves with. “I think it belongs to you but, if you don’t want it I’d be glad to take it off your hands”
The Farmer was confused but still followed. “Turner, what are you talking about”.
Mr. Turner slide open the shed door. Two shining brown eyes looked back.
The Farmer gave a rich smile…
“HOW…How Tuner...” The Farmer’s smile grew as the owner of the shining brown eyes starred back and shook its mane “My Morgan”. The Farmer laughed.
“Well Farmer that’s what we need to talk about” Mr. Turner pointed to the Farmer’s colt. “This brave horse has fought through a blistering cold night and survived, and my girls have come up with a great honor for this young thing”
“May I ask what that is?” said the Farmer, stunned by Mr. Turner’s words.
Mr. Turner folded his arms and smiled “a name, Spice in fact” he spate in the snow. “And we can even make a deal, you take this horse you take him with that name, you leave this horse and ‘Spice’ will be staying here”
The Farmer took a big breath, no one wanted to cross Mr. Turner. “Spice it is” the Farmer sighed.