I am a pony that nopony knows.

It is a beautiful morning in Ponyville. Yesterday, it rained all day. Everypony stayed inside, unless they absolutely had to go out. I watched out my window, as little runnels of water descended across the panes, then ran off the muntins and dribbled down onto the sill. There was some thunder, and some lightning, but I was not afraid. I am a big pony now, and I know that the weather cannot hurt me when I am inside.

It was chilly, yesterday. I felt like I should make myself some hot chocolate, but I had none left in the house, and I did not feel like I should brave the rain to go to Sugarcube Corner for as trivial a thing as hot chocolate. I made myself tea instead. It wasn’t as good as hot chocolate would have been, but it warmed me up inside.

I sat by the window, watching the rain fall. I watched the leaves of the trees play in the wind. I opened the window, just a little, so I could feel the wind for myself, feel it exploring my mane and feeling my fur. Eddies of wind would bring a slight spray of water dancing into my room, and I fancied myself an explorer, sailing across the vast oceans. Perhaps in another life, I was. I watched until it became dark, then I went to bed. My dreams were of the sea.

I woke early. Ponyville was silent, and my room was dark, but I do not fear the dark. I am a big pony, and I know that the dark cannot harm me. My room was cold, because I had forgotten to close the window last night, but I did not mind, for the air was fresh and clean, as it often is after a cleansing rain. I left the window ajar, and pulled on socks. They are yellow, almost a match for my mane, and made of wool. When I first got them, I felt that they were scratchy, but Miss Rarity told me that I would get used to them, and I did. They keep my legs quite warm.

I made myself another glass of tea and sat by the window. The pegasi were already about in the gloaming, clearing the clouds. I could squint and make out the familiar ponies of the night patrol: Blossomforth, Thunderlane, Cloud Kicker, Cloudchaser, and Flitter. What must it be like to fly about at night, trying to spot clouds amidst the vast darkness of the sky? I do not think I would enjoy such work, if I had wings, yet they perform without complaint, giving us earthbound ponies the glory of sunrise.

As the sky lightened, I took my socks off and ran a brush through my mane. I do not try to impress anypony, but I believe grooming is important. When I had finished, I walked down the stairs to my kitchen, my hooffalls echoing through the empty house. Some ponies fill their houses with things, but I have no need of them. Such finery may be well and good for unicorns, but I need little. In the kitchen, I pull out a bowl of hay—two days old, but still perfectly good—and season it with a little alfalfa I have left over. I eat it in the kitchen, then wash the bowl and put it back in the cupboard, and wash my teacup and hang it back on its hook.

The streets of Ponyville are deserted this early. The shops are shuttered, although the enticing smells wafting from Sugarcube Corner could almost lead one to pound on the doors, demanding a sweet. But I am a big pony, and I can delay my gratification. I will go there for lunch.

I lie down on the grass in the park, and lay my head on the ground. As the sun rises, I can see the light play through the dewdrops on the grass. When I look closely, I can even see the fine-spun silk of a spiderweb, glistening like diamond dust. I doubt the spider sees such beauty in his craft, but why should he not?

Above me, birds begin to sing to the morning, and it feels as if I can hear the flowers respond as they slowly open. I get up and walk over to a small garden that the Flower Trio had planted many years ago, when Mayor Mare wanted to improve the park. There are beautiful pink tulips with thin yellow traces that look not unlike myself. I contemplate picking one, and placing it in a vase on my dining room table, but such an act would be selfish to other ponies who might enjoy the flowers themselves. It is better that it should stay here, with its companions, enjoying Celestia’s sun and what rain the pegasi bring forth.

My moment of solitude is finally over. The noise of the town is getting louder, and more and more ponies come out for the day. The farmponies and tradeponies are opening their shops and stalls, hawking their wares. It is as if the town itself is a living, breathing organism, waking with the sun. I feel privileged to witness it.

I watch the foals as they make their way to the schoolhouse, sometimes alone, and sometimes with their friends. It is not unlike watching drops of rain form into rivulets of water, and then become puddles. Their cheerful voices carry over the more muted conversations of the adults. Some of them play in the yard, while others just talk with each other. Sweetie Belle, Apple Bloom, and Scootaloo are no doubt planning how they will get their cutie marks today. I wonder if I am the only pony who they have not pestered for advice. I would tell them that a cutie mark will come when it comes, and it means whatever you want it to mean. Perhaps it is your special talent, as the unicorns believe. Perhaps it is something that appears after a great act, as the pegasi believe. Perhaps it is a sign you have grown into an adult, as the Zebra believe. I believe it is just a mark on the butt that has no more significance than that which is given it. Sometimes I wonder if Pony society would be better without cutie marks.

I watch as Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie bounce a ball between themselves. Both are bearers of Elements, and yet both often show little more patience and sense than a foal. It makes me wonder. Yet, they and their friends have done great things for this town, and for Equestria as a whole. Perhaps they have learned that being an adult does not mean that one has to act adult all the time, and if so, perhaps they are wiser than I am.

I leave the park, and make my way into town. I stop at Sugarcube Corner and buy a cinnamon roll. I did not wear my saddlebags, so I carry the bag in my teeth, until I get to the market. Mrs. Cake is kind enough to give me credit, because she knows I don’t like wearing them anymore, and I have nowhere else to carry around my bits.

I sit on a bench, slowly eating my cinnamon roll, watching the marketplace. Roseluck waves at me, and I wave back. She is distracted by Big McIntosh stepping out from behind the Apple’s stall, as is every other mare in the market, myself included. His form is perfect, and his silence and shyness enhance his image, as does the yoke he always seems to wear. I am surely not the only pony who sometimes imagines him without it, and sometimes imagines more than that. I wonder if there are any foals in town that are his? Perhaps time will tell. He certainly would not be the one to speak of it, and I am skeptical of the claims of other mares.

I feel my eyelids growing heavy, and do not fight the feeling. The noise of the market fades to a soft susurrus, and the rays of the sun feel warm on my coat. My belly is full, and I am content. I go to a quiet place inside my head, and let the simple pleasures of life wash over me. I can feel my heart beating, a comforting sound. It is always there, yet usually ignored.

In Manehatten, somepony would have asked me to move off the bench, would have asked me if I had a home, if I had a job. Somepony would have called me a vagrant. Not in Ponyville. For all its faults, almost everypony here is honest and kind. Is it because Princess Celestia’s personal protégé lives here? Is it because the bearers of the Elements of Harmony live here? Or is it because of something in the water, perhaps something more vital, because it comes from the Everfree forest? I do not know, but I would like to know.

The clock tower chimes eleven times, and I open my eyes. The clock is the master of all ponies, myself included. I wonder if Time Turner feels it more than most? I get off the bench, my knees popping as I stand. I flex my shoulders, and walk back towards my house. Time to put on the proverbial ball and chain.

I walk across the bridge, trailing my cart full of garbage, that which was so vital and important at the market the day before now forgotten and unwanted. There are certainly things I would rather do, although I suppose I have to put up with this for a few more weeks. I am a big pony, and must accept the consequences. Still, it is rather nice that they have considered me what they call a ‘low flight risk.’ When I have unloaded the cart, I think I will go back to the park, and sit for a while. I always like watching the sunset, especially in the springtime.