The low-lying hills that cradle the pasture are gray. Storm  smells with excitement the windy moisture as it whistles through his mane, misting his fur. Storm loves the wind. He can go into the barn anytime he wants. Mr. Hill always leaves the wooden gate open for him. Just below the storm clouds, you can almost touch, he savors the sunshine still billowing warmth to his very soul. His steamy breath races back into the wind. Storm never would consider taking shelter; unless the lightning comes in, with that flash and boom he often hears in spring, on his expansive field. Inspired by this storm, he pretends to be in charge. Showing off his power, on a whim, he runs full tilt in bursts, watching his exaggerated shadow following him in the whirls this wind is creating. Getting more intense as the temperature suddenly drops, he perks his ears forward trying to predict what is unfolding before him. The fields then lay flat patterns down, tossed to and fro in sync, are now part of the nap of his bright velvet fur. Again, sparkling waves of sunshine blast through the dark sky. Wind, traveling upward to huge spiral whisks, disappears. His heart quickens seeing the flash, feeling the huge rumble reverberate all the way through his hooves. The horse stands steadfast, his shadow never leaving his side, and not ever out of step. Rocking, his ankle cracks, ever so gently, in his adjustment of balance, against the power, this storm brings. The rain comes in brisky pounding the dirt, drumming with rhythm, as if backup, to accompany the the original tune of the whistling wind. Rain, cool; soaking his back and eyelashes; now sides and belly, releases its energy back into the earth. What a thrill, he wouldn't miss a minute of.