The wildness of the being is as endearing as its obedience. The free flow of its fleeing mane as beautiful as its docile amble through the return gate. He runs wild. He returns happy. He rears up. He kneels in friendship. These things abide when he is gone, when the rush of his spirit buffets like the swipe of his tail passing by, and his voice comes with the winds of autumn and the rains of spring. A galloping ghost, once a gallant spirit, or maybe now always so. Pastures abound.