My eyes don’t open. Not yet, not for long times. I can smell everything. Odor. The trails cake the air. They drift past on whisps of things. Ventus? Wind. Breeze. It travels. Drifts. Iter. Feel. Softly, my hooves, ungulis, they hit the ground. Still wet, still soft, still weak. They will toughen. Indura. Harden. Stiffen. Tough. And that smell. It’s the strongest. Warm, milk scent, calidum, lac odorem. Mother. Her voice. It's soft and strong. Like her odor. Her smell. I touch my nose to her. I feel it, the soft wet tip of her snout, warm and gentle. Safe. tutus. My legs are still shaky. Long, lanky, not yet strong, but soon. Someday. My traveller. Your name. It is Ambulo. The Walk, Run, Travel, Journey. Name. Nomino. You will be the greatest walker of us all. Yes. Walk, run, journey, travel. That is me. I will do it. Soil cakes my fur, wet fur on my belly. My legs. My chest. Dark, rich, brown and smelly. Smelling of worms, nom-yums, and Mother. The soil here carries her milk-warm smell. My eyes crack. Brightness. Sun. Burn. Ack. not the Night-Sun. Night-sun. An image comes to mind. A dark black sky, not like the bright burn ack. A night. Then a bright ball, a night-sun. There is a deer in the Night-sun. A little one, hidden among dark rocks on the surface, but i can see her there. And then it is gone, and the sky is bright burn ack again. Night-sun is good. He is patient and keeps words. He is cold, like snow, but not destroy food-stuffs. Food-stuffs. Yes. I want food stuffs. Mother. She has the smell. Milk warm milk. Food-stuff. Mother. I wish for the food-stuffs. I feed, then curl into her belly and the soft green pine needles. The Night-Sun is rising, so i shall sleep. I am not a creature meant to see the Night-Sun.

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