Feverfew liked to believe she was following a trail from a dream. And though the young filly often dreamt of the swamp, she was just stumbling through the trees. The young filly kept swinging her head back and forth, taking in the sights of the swamp. Twice, she almost ran into a tree or a low-lying branch.
A rustling of branches distracted her attention, and Feverfew glanced upwards. For a few fleeting moments, she saw a bright flash of a songbird. And then, she found herself in the water. Feverfew had fallen into a small pond, in her inattentiveness. Wet and slightly muddy, the young filly continued on her journey, undeterred.
A patch of white flowers, their yellow centers catching the sunbeam. In her dream, there had been a thick carpet of flowers, so large and thick that she was up to her knees in them. But there was only a small clump here, gathered on the ground where the sun shone through the trees. Feverfew, it was a name the filly knew instinctively.
