Ghost Runner

With the whistling wind whipping his mane,
He runs wild and free.
Smells of wet grass, kicked up by his hooves,
Fill his flaring nostrils.

In the dark of night he is only a shadow,
galloping amidst the fog.
He whinnies to the moon an exuberant trill,
Cutting through the velvet twilight still.

Like me, he wants to outrun himself.
His footwork stumbles, but he will not fall.
Far away now, his dark shape slows to a halt.
Stooping to drink from a glistening lake,
He rests.

Then, silent as a ghost,
His majestic figure melts into darkness.