Imogene Walks

First one leg sprouts, then two, she is human if a little awkward. Then two more dance their way out of the shell, attached, alive - a centaur is born.

She is Imogene.

Today she will walk.

With a tiny fury of muscles rippling over her soft down coat from nape to tail, the Little Horsey Girl tests her strength. Knee bones hit pine, shell crackles under hoof - she struggles to her newly formed four. The first attempt is a stumble to her face, hair asunder, lip trembling with fear and trepidation for the coming glory. Attempt #2: Back legs stand and lock; front right hoof sinks into the woody surface of her birthplace and plants firmly; front left whimpers, shakes off excess shell and dust - and sticks.

She is up.

Raising her large head to the sky, sun dappled cheeks grow with a grin not known to the underbelly of the bed before this morning.

Imogene walks.

Adventures are surely awaiting.

Imogene walks out from under the giant slumber of birth, toward destiny, toward heroism, toward the pair of jeans left next to the night stand.