Chariots of the Surf

They race along the shoreline, their hooves pounding, their manes flailing in the breeze while the surf rages like chariots of old.  This is freedom and it cannot be expressed in any other way. 



There are no halters and harnesses restricting their movements.  There are no riders controlling their pace and direction.  They run because they were born to run and nothing can stop the exhilaration as the salt and sand sting their eyes and lash their hides. 



One might call it freedom in action. 



I watch them and I wonder...



They are rushing headlong, forward, but to what purpose?  Are they perhaps chasing some unseen something, hidden from our view?  What is it that drives them ever onward?  Is there a goal in sight?  Some unseen destination known only to them?



Is this a race perhaps?  Are they competing?  And is there a winner in this race?  How far must they run before they reach their goal?  Or... is it a race without end? Neck and neck they go!  Perhaps they are training and the pull of the water is strengthening their muscles and lengthening their stride.  Race horses, champions, designed for the Ascot or Derby?  Maybe even Melbourne!



They are one in their movement.  Are they bent on some unknown purpose, racing together to reach their goal?  Is this teamwork, running in harmony, together but separate, intent.  Do they ever jostle each other in their pursuit? 



Are they being chased?  Escaping who knows what? Running in very terror of their lives?  No, I don’t think so.  These steeds are free.  They run for the sheer pleasure of running.  In another place they may be seen racing through the trees, wild brumbies, running, running, ever running...



There is energy in their movement, too.  Do they run till their strength gives way?  'Till they can run no more?  Till they stop and rest in the shallow waters with the swirling sand beneath their hooves and the water swishing around their legs?



Here they enjoy the surf...they stir up the surf...they run from it’s rhythmic roar and the surf rises up and chases them.  For a moment, there is a sense of flightiness in their movement but is a passing moment.  These magnificent steeds  run with purpose, a united purpose, rushing headlong…but to where?  I had no idea. 



I continued to watch them and wondered...and as I watched them race along the beach and disappear into the distance I knew I had shared their world for a brief passing moment but I also knew that I was not a part of that world.  I would never be…for I was born for a different purpose.  I was born to be harnessed, to plod and to plough and to see the fruit of my labours in fields ripe unto harvest.  In a strange sort of a way, I felt a deep sense of contentment.  This was my lot in life. 



I looked up and saw my master approaching.  It was time to start another day.





NOTE: This was written for one of writing.com's competitions but was never submitted.  A photo of horses racing in the sea...