The Run

Riley Sherrard

    We run.  Run through the mountains, my foal close to my side. The sweet crisp air enters my nostril and exits my parched mouth.  The explosive thumps as my hooves slam against the rocky ledges of the the mountain.  My foal pants asking me to stop but I can’t.  Alarm fills my mind as I think about my rider catching up and hauling us back to that horrible ranch below the mountains.  We run onward.

    I remember growing up on that ranch.  The smell of dung burnt my nostrils as I stood by my parents.  The only thing we had to eat was the rotten leftovers of my riders supper from the night before.  I felt imprisoned, trapped in a prison with no escape because of the electric walls surrounding me.  And the dreadful wait for my rider to drag me hopelessly from my imprisonment was everlasting.  Then when he put on the saddle, hopped on my back and rammed the jagged spikes of his spurs into my vulnerable sides forcing me to bolt forward.  I didn’t want my foal to live this, to be ran to near death like me, my parents and all the other horses.  That is why we are running away, as far away from that horrible ranch as we can.

    Now I start to slow down.  My foal begins to trot slowly from exhaustion.  We both come to a stop and I look out over the mountain ranges.  I once again breath in the cold crisp air which freezes my mouth and throat.  The frozen breeze blows through my tangled mane.  I look down at my foal and stare into its gloomy unsure eyes.  I slowly lift my head again and begin to step deeper into the mountains.