I remember when I first saw my father's racing horses. The wind had a particular chill to it causing the long meadow grass to brush through it in a consistent motion of noise. They were so far from me and yet so free. No longer chasing over a prize. No longer the loss of a unlucky man's fortune neither the win. But the motion of running never haults, no.
The wind and the air it never freezes in Its place. Its always moving past an whether the eye can acknowledge it.
