>wake to birdsong, right before first light
>stoke the campfire back up and begin packing my tent
>yesterday we foraged some wild potatoes growing in a thicket by the road - perfect for breakfast today with some of the butter and salt we carry with us.
>my best friend, a spirited dancer we picked up from ponyville months ago, stirs to the smell of cooking
>she murmurs to me about a dream she had as she helps with breakfast, her eyes aglow across the fire
>our little chuckles and breakfast commotion rouse other friends, and the camp slowly but surely kicks into the morning routine
>soon enough, an instrument - not put away from last night - is picked up and idly plucked
>it's a tune we all know well, and those who don't need their mouths for eating start singing along
>my best friend prefers to dance, but her groove is limited to a rhythmic sway while she carefully prepares the last baked potato for herself
>a dozen ponies load their tents into the covered wagon, and we set off before noon in a loose group, connected by the song echoing through the foothills
>the township Wheatgrass is not quite half a day away, and although we don't keep a schedule, I can't wait to introduce my best friend to the local silversmith
>he was an adventurer in his heyday, and he loves to trade stories over a bottle of fine wine
>my best friend seems excited at the prospect and smiles, looking at me for half a moment before skipping down the road shouting that she'll be first at the wine
>that smile doesn't leave my mind til Wheatgrass appears from behind a distant hill