Junebug Finds the Herd

A blue butterfly fluttered over the grass, and Junebug followed it just one little hill farther than before.

She was a young foal, with soft brown ears and a white star on her forehead. Her mother, Fern, had been grazing nearby with the herd. Junebug liked to stay close enough to touch Fern’s side with her nose. But the butterfly bobbed over the clover, dipped past a buttercup, and floated toward the low rise.

“Just one more step,” Junebug said.

The butterfly lifted over the rise. Junebug trotted after it. At the top, she found the butterfly resting on a tall blade of grass. Its blue wings opened and shut like two tiny fans.

“Hello,” Junebug whispered.

Then the butterfly flitted away, and Junebug looked around. The pasture seemed different from here. The familiar hedge curved across the far side, but the low rise hid the herd. The grass rolled in green waves, and every patch of clover looked much like the next.

Junebug turned one way, then the other. She could not see Fern’s chestnut coat or the herd’s grazing backs.

“Mother?” she called.

Only the breeze answered, brushing the grass with a soft shhh.

Junebug remembered how Fern stayed near whenever she explored. Foals stayed close to their mothers, and Junebug wanted to be beside hers again. She took a careful step toward the rise, but the slope dipped away in a place she did not recognize.

For a moment, she stood very still. Her heart gave a quick little thump. The pasture was not a scary place, but it looked confusing when she was by herself.

Then Junebug remembered something. Fern had a special nicker: a warm, rising sound that always seemed to say, “I’m here, little one.”

Junebug lifted her head and listened. Perhaps, if she called back, Fern could hear her too.

So Junebug took a breath, opened her mouth, and waited for the quiet pasture to listen.

“Neee-igh?” Junebug called. Her voice came out small and wobbly, but it carried across the grass.

She waited. A bird chirped in the hedge. Somewhere, a grasshopper ticked. Junebug listened carefully, keeping her ears turned toward every sound.

Then, from beyond the low rise, came Fern’s familiar nicker. “Neee-igh!” It rose at the end just the way Junebug remembered.

Junebug’s ears perked up. “I hear you, Mother!” she called back.

Fern nickered once more. This time, Junebug noticed that the sound came from the far side of the rise, near the long hedge. The hill still blocked her view, but the sound gave her a direction.

Junebug started toward the hedge. She went slowly, looking for the places she knew: a round stone beside the grass, a clump of white clover, and a little gap where the hedge bent inward. Each familiar thing helped her feel more certain.

At the hedge, the leaves made a green wall along the pasture. Junebug followed it, keeping the leafy branches beside her. The hedge curved around the low rise, just as Fern’s voice had seemed to come from beyond it.

“Neee-igh!” Junebug called again.

“Neee-igh!” Fern answered.

The answering sound was closer now. Junebug’s legs felt steadier. She could not see her mother yet, but she knew what to do: call, listen, and follow the sound.

She walked along the hedge until the land began to slope gently down. Then the pasture opened on the other side of the rise.

There stood Fern, her chestnut coat warm in the late sunlight. She had lifted her head from the grass, and her ears pointed straight toward Junebug.

“Mother!” Junebug cried.

Fern gave a soft nicker and came to meet her. Junebug hurried the last few steps, then pressed her nose against Fern’s shoulder.

“There you are,” Fern murmured.

“I heard you,” Junebug said. “And I knew how to answer.”

Fern brushed her cheek against Junebug’s forehead. Together, they turned toward the herd.

The way back seemed easier with Fern beside her. Junebug walked close to her mother’s shoulder, where Fern’s familiar smell was warm and grassy. Now the pasture looked like itself again: the low rise, the bending hedge, and the clover patches shining in the evening light.

“Was the butterfly blue?” Fern asked.

“Very blue,” said Junebug. “And very good at flying.”

Fern gave a quiet, amused snort. “Did it find its way home?”

“I think so,” Junebug said. She tucked herself a little closer to Fern. “I found you.”

They walked at an easy pace. The hedge rustled gently in the breeze, and a few sleepy birds settled among its leaves. Junebug listened to the soft sounds around her. She could hear Fern’s steady steps and her own hooves pressing the grass. Farther ahead, the herd made a peaceful murmur as it grazed.

When they reached the others, a gray mare lifted her head, then went back to munching. The herd stood together in the broad pasture, calm and unhurried. Junebug stayed beside Fern while they joined the group.

The sky grew peach-colored near the horizon. Long shadows stretched over the grass, and the blue butterfly was nowhere to be seen. Junebug gave one small yawn.

“Ready to rest?” Fern asked.

Junebug leaned her shoulder against her mother. “Right here.”

Fern lowered her head to graze, and Junebug nibbled a few soft blades beside her. She no longer needed to search for the way. Fern was close, the herd was near, and the familiar pasture spread quietly around them.

As the evening light settled over the field, Junebug listened to the herd munching softly. Fern’s warm side rested against hers. Junebug let her eyes grow heavy, while the hedge whispered in the breeze and the pasture slowly turned dusky and still.