Hey, where is the hay? Or grass of green? Or any sort of telluric treat? This snow is just frozen water and we are not seeking a drink.

Of course, we are only un-omniscient horses, so we have neither ideas regarding how this occurred nor access to answers in sources like pantology courses—because, well, we cannot read.

If the farmer is snickering behind those trees, schadenfreude tickling him as he watches our unease with freeze upon these leas, well, next time we meet to be shoed, hoofs will knock his knees.

Oh, then, let him call us shakebucklers even though he laughed first and provided no alternative eats—for our horsey senses have long known the combos to the silos with their bales of apples, oats, and wheats. ; )