Verdant green pastures

Roll to the horizon

Fed by whispering streams that drift out of sight.

Towering oaks spread their branches,

Casting presumptuous shadows across the turf.

Here they graze, this herd of champions.

The rich, tufty grass is their fuel,

The springy turf their testing ground.

The glowing moon is their nightlight,

Lighting an eternal path for their trials.

As they run, they appear to float.

Skimming across the rolling hills,

With necks stretched and nostrils flared,

Their legs are a whirring machine of power.

The wind grabs their tails,

Tossing and tousling them.

Their hoofbeats thunder quietly,

Carrying them to indefinite greatness.