Stormheart

“The Run of the Free” The wind rolls across the open plains, heavy with the scent of dry grass and dust. A distant rumble grows — hooves striking the hard earth, steady and wild. The herd moves as one body, a wave of muscle and motion under the morning sun. Manes whip in the air; tails cut through the wind. Dust rises high behind them, painting the horizon in gold. At their front, the stallion — Stormheart. His coat glistens with sweat and sunlight, his breath thick and deep. Every stride he takes sends a message through the herd — direction, rhythm, safety. The mares follow close, their foals running low between them. No words, no commands — only the language of movement, scent, and sound. A flick of his ear, a snort, a shift of weight — the herd understands. They pass through low hills and dry sagebrush. A coyote lifts its head, watching from a distance. The stallion sees, but does not slow. The rhythm of his hooves speaks louder than any threat. The herd keeps its pace, driven by instinct and memory — the endless search for water, for grass, for open sky. At last, the faint glimmer of water shimmers in the heat. Stormheart slows, head raised, nostrils flaring to test the air. No scent of predators, no trace of man. He exhales through his nostrils — short, low, and calm. The signal passes through the herd like wind in tall grass. They gather by the waterhole. Steam rises from their bodies as they lower their heads to drink. The stallion remains alert, ears twitching toward every sound — the wing of a hawk, the whisper of grass. The land is still, for now. The mustangs rest. Wild hearts beating in rhythm with the earth beneath them.