By Grace, age 13

I crouch down low on my pony's neck
And twine my fingers in red-gold mane.
I give the command to gallop,
And feel his muscles begin to work
Bneath my bare knees.
The cool wind whips through my hair,
Plucking at my old t-shirt.
My chubby mustang pony is transformed
Into a swift-footed gazelle.
He is an aerial sprite,
Born by the breeze,
Trailing an earthbound shadow.
We are two as one.
We are free.