She doesn't want to tell you, but she's lonely on the plain
Riding 'cross the fields green, down and back again
It is the only place where she can truly be at ease
But she wishes for companionship, beyond the whipping breeze
The steady beat of horse hooves, wind flowing through her hair
If she doesn't look her best the grass and hills don't care
All in all it's peaceful, the rhythm of her gait
But stirring deep inside her, a fear that it's too late
[I had more to the poem, but I got sidetracked and then forgot to write it down. A girl needs to finish it anyway. I can't get inside her head. Is she truly free in her solitude, or horribly alone, or both? I can't figure out how anyone can be a girl these days. No wonder you're all crazy (and I say that with love).]
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