Rolling on memories

On hills of grass, rolling beneath the stampede of hooves, they come marching. Strangers to each other, but nonetheless siblings. For they were all moving the same direction, clutching the same goal in their chests. The sun fried them in heat, but they moved on. Sweat drooped down their sides, but they moved on. Eyes glanced backwards...
But could they move on, when what had brought them together, was now chasing them out?

Happy Filthy Friday.