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His hooves were made for this. Hard-soft sand that wears and scratches. Earth. Hard earth. Pound it. Push against it. Be fleet. Be flying. Be.

Wind whips the flag of his tail. His mane. His wind. He makes it. The Boy, his boy, grips his sides. A reminder to motion. His motion. Faster. Fly before the multitudes of sand. Crush the snake. Slow. Slow. Slow. Fly past the line of slow. Slow. Slow. Fixed tents. Camels. They stop. Motionless before his motion.


His shadow a black cloud he casts upon the warm-cool earth. His finds the cool. Sweat flanks. Wind. It pushes him. Hot. Dry. Crackling steps. Behind him as he runs toward the sea. The sea. The sea. The boy found him there. He found the boy. Gripping his back. Urging him to go.

He goes.

He runs toward the sea, but he is home. Home where the boy is. Flying across the sand.