One of my fondest childhood memories is the Summer of my 4th year. I was barefoot, in a black-and-white-striped bathing suit, dashing in and out of my grandparent’s creek. There was a wide green meadow—dappled with Queen Anne’s Lace—the creek wound its way through and across a field where two horses roamed. They answered to the names Blackberry and Sunshine. I’d visit them with tiny fists of clover, and carefully, I’d climb the worn wooden fence to hop upon their backs. For hours, I’d take turns riding them, free as the wind. I’d lay along their backs and pet them as they grazed, braid flowers into their manes, and tell them stories from my imagination. They taught me how to love without expectation or agenda, and that speaking without words is how nature also communicates.