I know it is a dream because I have not yet run, have not yet stretched my small, still-growing legs out into the fantastic rhythm of flight-and-fall that in the dream I feel so vividly.
So, I run. I run through the swamp, out of the swamp, the soft suck-and-pull of the marshy ground slowly fading into firmness of dry earth and then the harder click of rocks under my hooves. I run until the familiar sounds of my swampy home melt away and then suddenly there is another sound, a new sound, a sound of heave-and-push, crash-and-fall that thrums in my ears with a steady ache that pulls me, pulls me, pulls me onwards and onwards, through the strange not-swamp and the unfamiliar lands, the sound becoming louder and louder, pulling and pulling and thrumming and thrumming in my ears, my blood, my veins, until, suddenly --
I break through to the top of a cliff, my hooves scrambling to a stop on the rough stone and an unfamiliar taste in the windy air. There it is, roiling in front of me, crashing below me, pulling in me and through me and all around me, blue and green and silver-white foam, the eternal tug and pull that runs through my veins, the life that I feel within myself now that I have met the sea.