First came eohippus, the dawn horse, dog-sized and equable, barely a meal for the cave bear or the saber-toothed tiger. But different from the others: self-selected, among the rodents, for a swifter destiny. Its toenails had begun to itch. Already it was dreaming of the wind.
Over the ages it found its limbs growing stronger, its snout lengthening. It learned how to whinny. It saw itself turn into the wild ass, the donkey, the horse, the extravagant zebra, and entered history with new molars, an imagination, reins.
In the meantime, two divergent branches had appeared. One, adapting to the rhythm of the waves, curled its tail, shrank, and became the sea horse. The other grew wings. Known as the pegasus, it occasionally gives free rides to deserving poets.