He can feel his muscles singing, feel his tendons and muscles stretch out to their maximum length, feels his hooves hit the dirt with pounding thuds and feel his skin prickle with sweat underneath the hot, hot sun. He runs until his breath whistles hot and raw out of his throat.
The marsh has given way to a broad, flat floodplain, stretching off to all horizons and completely reflective; he can see his own wavering visage underneath, matching him stride for stride, always keeping pace. It laughs at him, a brief throw of strong white teeth, always astride, always alongside, never giving up and never slowing down. It will be there for as long as he exists.
So he pushes himself to his limit -- until he runs with great leaping bounds over the floodplain, long ground-eating strides, coursing until all he can hear is the thud of blood in his veins, echoing the thud of his hooves against the ground, thud thud thud thud thud, until it becomes one and the same.
