Know your mare, know your mare, know your mare...

An odd inclusion accompanied the old, dusty gray stallion - A single chair that the stallion sat on with his hat dipped over his eyes.

...Sir?

"Mhm...?"

Ah! You're awake.

"Sure enough I am. Still as all else - like the open prairie just before the final hours of sunset... I'm alive. I'm just basking in the gentle silence whenever it allows."

...Okay then...

Burnt Oak...

Wants to chop down every tree in Sweet Apple Acres...

"Reckon I never considered it. Wonder why that is? All of them great, mighty trees, reaching up for the skies; morning, noon, or night. It's remarkable when you think about it; poetic, almost. We ponies come, and go, plucking what we want from it - shade or their bountiful fruit, and they just keep providing like Mother Nature always does. The ponies that borrow from them come and go, but the trees? Well, they just keep on growing now, don't they?"

I... I guess--what?

Burnt Oak...

Likes to pass the buck onto other ponies...

"'Pass the buck'... That's a funny saying when you think about it. Ain't much different from ponies or deer, and a grown deer is called a buck. Did you know that? Reckon sometimes I get to wondering: what's makes a stallion a stallion and a buck a buck. Suppose'n it might have to do---"

Make him stop!

Enough with drawl-pony-express rambles!

"Sure enough I don't know much about any pony express. Thinking that might have to do with me knowing more about the creeks and the---"

Stop!

Just stop!

Oh my Makers, he's still going!

We know Burnt Oak now.

And he won't stop telling us things!

"---and the winds? Well, they just keep blowing. No pony tells them when to stop, do they?" Burnt Oak carried on and on as four voices groaned in agony, nearly drowning out the wistful old stallion's thoughtful rambles. Nearly.