The fuzzy mohawk of his mane was tinged a cheerful green for the occasion, inspired by the emerging foliage. The swishing brush of his tail echoed it. The rest of him was mud brown. How much of that waa really mud was unclear, but be sure it was a decent percentage. He was a yearling in spring and felt like it.
More legs than anything, the boy danced through the wet pastures of home, admiring every sign of awakening life he came across. Bird song and thawing earth, fat buds on the tips of tree branches. His eyes drank it in. When was the last time he'd been alone? With his herd, his family, he was never alone. His sister, his cousin, his parents. They were always there, and that was usually a good thing. But today, he felt the peace of being alone, without his sister stalking him, without his mother breathing over his back.
It was thrilling, and a little nerve wracking, if he was being honest. But there were more important things to think about. His hooves dug into the slick earth, tearing through mud and moss as he picked up speed. The thud of his canter kicked up spatters of cold muck, and he knew he'd hear about the state of his coat when he got home. Worth it.
Huffing and puffing, breath fogging on the still crisp air, he came to a rest at the edge of the meadow. Steam rose from his coat in misty tendrils, from the earth around him. A wolfish grin spilt his lips.