Willow's Big Crossing

Willow was a young bay horse with a soft white star on his forehead. His nose was velvet-warm, and his mane stuck up like a paintbrush. He loved to chase butterflies and sip sweet water from puddles. But there was one thing Willow did not love: high, shaky things.

One bright morning, the herd set out. Queen Maple, the wise lead mare, stepped proudly at the front. Dust puffed, tails swished, and the sound of hooves was like gentle drums: tum, tum, tum. They were traveling to the Tall Grass Meadow, a wide, green place on the other side of the blue river.

The path curled through birch trees and sunny rocks. A rabbit hopped across. A red robin sang from a fence post. When they reached the river, Willow's heart skipped. The water rushed and giggled. A long wooden bridge stretched over it, narrow as a balance beam and full of little creaks.

Cloud, a big gray horse, went first. Clip, clop. The boards shook a little but held. Then Juniper, then Pip, then Thistle the foal, all crossing with their ears forward and their tails lifting like flags.

Willow came to the start of the bridge and stopped. His legs felt like two sticks and two noodles. The water shone with wiggly pictures. He saw his own face ripple like a fish.

"I... I don't think I can," he whispered.

Thistle turned and called, "You can, Willow! I'll wait on the other side!"

Queen Maple stepped back onto the bridge. Her eyes were calm as a pond. "Breathe," she said, blowing a warm puff toward Willow's cheek. "Slow steps. I'm with you."

Willow took one hoof-step. The board answered with a tiny squeak.

"Hello, board," Willow said in a small voice.

He took another step. Clip. Clop. He listened to the beat and made a song in his head.

"Clip, clop, don't stop," he murmured. "Clip, clop, don't stop."

The bridge wobbled. A bright leaf skittered across like a little yellow mouse. Wind tugged at the hair on Willow's head. In the middle of the bridge, everything felt big and loud—the water's whoosh, the wood's groan, his own quick breath.

He froze.

"I can't," he said again, a bit louder.

Queen Maple's shoulder touched his. "You already did," she said. "Listen to your hooves."

Willow bent his head and sniffed the board. It smelled like sun and rain. He pressed down with his hoof. The board did not bend. It only gave another polite squeak.

"Okay," Willow told the board. "Okay," he told himself.

From the far side, the herd began to cheer in horse ways—soft nickers and happy snorts.

Thistle called, "Clip, clop, don't stop!"

The robin hopped along the rail, flicking its tail like a tiny coach.

Willow found the song again. Clip, clop, don't stop. He took three steps. Then five. Queen Maple matched him—one, two, one, two—steady as a lullaby without the sleep. The bridge still wobbled. The river still rushed. But the beat inside Willow was stronger.

His last step landed on grass. Soft, sweet grass. The herd crowded around with warm noses and whisker-tickles.

"You did it!" Thistle squealed.

Willow tossed his paintbrush mane. His heart was still racing, but it felt like a happy race now.

Just then, a tiny colt named Bee tiptoed to the bridge. His knees shook. "It looks too far," Bee squeaked.

Willow stepped beside him. "It is far," he said gently. "But we can go together. Listen for the song."

Bee pricked his fuzzy ears. "What song?"

"Our hooves," said Willow. "Clip, clop, don't stop."

They crossed side by side, two sets of small hooves finding one brave beat. When Bee's step wobbled, Willow hummed the rhythm. When the wind tugged, Willow leaned a little closer. They reached the grass, and Bee jumped in a circle of joy.

The Tall Grass Meadow opened like a green sea. Butterflies dipped and rose. The herd scattered to graze and roll and run. Willow took a long drink from a calm pool. The water showed his face again, wiggly and smiling.

He still didn't love high, shaky things. But now he knew his brave beat. And wherever the herd would go—over bridges, past fallen logs, along narrow paths—he could find it and follow it, step by steady step.