Wild Horses

The stallion stood in the corner near the tall trees.

In the shade.

He watched

He lowered his elegant head and nibbled the grass.

The mares moved closer.

He snorted defiantly.

He moved away.

Then He raised his majestic head,

Looked towards the towering mountain tops.

He snorted again.

He began to trot

Slowly at first.

Every muscle, sinew and joint

Flowing in perfect harmony.

His jet-black mane and tail flowing in the wind.

His hooves pounding on the dry ground.

Gently, then as He increased speed

They began to thunder.

Every breath helped him power forward.

Then he felt it

Energy surging through him

He felt like He was flying, galloping

The air, the ground itself

In perfect harmony.

He was born for this

To do this

To be this.

What are you born to do?

What makes you come alive?