By midmorning the lawn had laid out ribbons no wider than a blade of grass. The ponies stood in a polite line, each mane waiting for a single bow, and the keeper asked them to braid no tighter than a whisper.
We asked at the apple kiosk by the fence. The seller said a pony had nodded to the hedge first, then to the apple, and only then lowered its head for the ribbon. They take one plait, she told us. Then they shake it softly and leave the rest of the mane for tomorrow.
A rumor went around that a new hair salon had opened on the grass. By the next afternoon it was only this: one extra pony came back for a second look in the dew, and every braid still sat as light as a good-morning.