In slow motion, the black mane flows in the wind, tossing in the eddies of the wind created from the toss of the proud head. Dark nostrils flare drinking in the tangent smells of the morning dew on blades of fresh green grass. The hoof strikes the ground as the proud stallion settles to a halt, to gaze across the rolling hills, before striking off once more, his muscles bunching, gathering power, to push against the ground, again and again, searching for more and more power.

The wind rushes faster and faster, silkily against his shiny coat, as he tries to beat gravity at her own game.