Zephyr, who had been grazing in peace since the piebald mare had left him was restless, he gave up cropping the scant vegetation and buckled into a furious gallop.
His name, Zephyr, the word for a warm wind from the east, and it fitted him well. All foals can run at just a few hours old, but Zephyr was exceptional, by the time he was a week old, the traditional naming age in his old herd, he was at least as fast as his mother. His swift feet and gentle nature, and his evasive and mysterious personality lent him his name, and it was certainly no more than a stallion of such presence deserved.
Still he galloped, hooves barely flashing the ground, he was not galloping, he was positively flying. Suddenly he slowed, turning in circles ever decreasing in size, rearing, plunging and bucking, more than once almost losing his footing until, quite suddenly, he stopped. Sides heaving from the effort he began walking back to where he had been before, cured of what horsemen call 'the fidgets', pent up energy that makes a horse liable to lash out.
'Call me a Philistine but I can't see the justification in the 'Petrification As Art' business.'
'Art justifies everything.'
'Uh, no, it doesn't, one-nil to me. Next?'
Doctor Who, The Stone Rose