Clover and the Ribbon

In a bright green meadow, the herd gathered by the big, bending willow. Buttercups nodded in the breeze. Hooves thudded softly. Today was the Ribbon Run.

Bracken, the wise bay leader, lifted a long red ribbon with his teeth. It shone like a streak of sunrise. "We carry this to the hill village," he said. "Tie it to the welcome gate, and the parade can begin."

Clover, a small dapple-gray horse with quick ears and a quicker heart, stepped forward. "I can carry it," she said. Her tail swished with nerves and pride. Bracken’s eyes were kind. "Steady steps, little one. We ride together."

Off they went: Bracken in front, tall Sorrel behind, gentle Nettle to the side, and Clover in the middle with the ribbon looped over her neck. Birds burst up from the grass. A creek chattered. The sun warmed their backs.

They trotted past a patch of blackberries. The bushes wore tiny hooks and bright berries like buttons. Clover glanced at a blue dragonfly dancing over the water. She smiled at it and forgot the bushes.

Snag.

The ribbon caught on a thorn. Clover squeaked and jerked free. A small tear showed, like a little mouth saying "Oh!"

Clover’s cheeks felt hot, though horses don’t really blush. She tucked the torn bit under the rest of the ribbon. Her heart tapped, tap, tap. Nettle looked over. "All right, Clover?"

"Yes," Clover said. Then softer, to her own hooves, "I think so."

They climbed the sandy slope to the ridge. Wind rushed over the top and tugged at manes and tails. It tugged the ribbon too.

Flap, flap.

The torn place fluttered and widened. Clover stopped. The herd slowed with her. The wind fell quiet for a breath.

Clover took one deep snuff of clover-scented air. "Bracken," she said. Her voice was small but steady. "I snagged the ribbon on a bramble. I hid it. I didn’t want to slow us down. I’m sorry."

The herd stood still. A grasshopper leaped. A cloud slid by.

Bracken walked back and touched his nose to Clover’s cheek. "Thank you for telling us," he said. "Truth is a clear path. Now we can help."

Sorrel peered at the tear. "It’s not too big. We need a fix that can fly down the hill and still look grand."

Nettle flicked her ears toward the field below. "Wildflowers," she said. "Soft grass too. We can weave."

They trotted down to a meadow of long green and splashes of color. Clover carefully set the ribbon in the grass. The herd snipped tall blades and picked flowers with gentle lips—yellow buttercups, white daisies, purple clover heads.

Nettle showed them how to twist and braid. Clover watched, then joined in. Over, under, pull. The tear disappeared into a bright, braided patch. The ribbon was longer now and even lovelier, with little petals tucked in like smiles.

Clover breathed out the worry she’d been carrying. It felt light, like a leaf letting go of a twig.

"Ready?" Bracken asked.

"Ready," Clover said.

They cantered on, hooves drumming, ribbon streaming red and green and gold behind them. Over the ridge, through the whispering pines, across the planks of the creek bridge they went.

The hill village came into view—painted fences, a gate with wooden hearts, children waving hats, people clapping. "Here come the horses!" someone called.

Clover trotted to the welcome gate. She lifted her head high. Nettle and Sorrel helped tie the ribbon in a proud bow. The braid shone like a small meadow caught in a red hug.

"It’s beautiful!" a child cried. "How did it get flowers?"

Bracken’s eyes twinkled. "A good road. A bit of wind. Honest words. And clever friends," he said.

Clover leaned into Nettle. "I was scared," she whispered. "But telling you felt better than hiding."

Nettle nuzzled her. "Truth lets help find you," she said.

The bell rang. Music started. The parade moved through the gate, and the ribbon fluttered proudly. Clover trotted beside Bracken with light steps and a light heart, the herd’s laughter like hoofbeats and song.

On the way home, the willow leaves ticked their backs like applause. Clover’s ears danced. She would remember the tug of the wind, the twist of the braid, and how strong a small truth could be.