Painting The Wind:A ShortStory

The 'ding' of the bell chimed in my ears, telling me it was time to go to 7th period History.
I put my pencil down reluctantly, back into the cup, and carried my drawing of a leaping bay mare and the cup of colored pencils over to the table. Gingerly placing my arwork on the pile of other's works, I swiftly walked to the counter housing the rest of the pencils. Now I was walking out the door with my history textbook and blue dolphin-covered lunchbag in one hand. In the other hand, my right hand, Paint The Wind was clutched tightly against my side.
I'd hardly put the book down since checking it out of our school library earlier that day. Wonderful, emotional prose was printed, double spaced, on each small tan page. On the cover ran a beautiful tobiano horse, white mane flowing across the sky. So carefree. So wild. Like I'd always wished to be.
So after being pushed around on my way up the stairs, still holding the book tight, I arrived in the classroom.
Taking the book up onto my desk, I opened it to my bookmarked page and immediatly was immersed in the story. The story of a girl, the story of a horse.
And the freedom we all deserve.
                                                                 X
Wind, sunlight, and beautiful landscape flow all around me.
Freedom... I think, blisfully aware of the other horses around me. I neigh happily.
Our spectrum of coat colors looked like a slipstream of wind to the eagle soaring above, to the world, to the sky. We were painting the wind.