She is wonderful to spectate, flying around with wings extended at the maximum wingspan. My daughter twists, turns, flips, and maneuvers gracefully through the air trying at her fullest capability to win the race. When another pegasus slams into her, she tumbles off course into the clouds getting her mane mangled, and messing up her number she wears to represent herself in the race, in an ecstasy of falling.
I am envious. Never for me the jaunty pride of a number, the solemn ritual of the coach’s pep talk, the camaraderie of shook hooves and clopped backsides, the shadow-striped hush of a late afternoon and last lap, the solemn vaulted universe of official combat, with its cheering mothers and father, and the bespectacled time keeper alert with his claxon. When the girl passes the lead pegasus and wins the race, she flies to her fellow teammates with hooves outstretched and her face alight as if blinded by triumph. They cheer her name, What spirit! What valor! What skill!
Her mother, watching from the sidelines, inwardly registers only one complaint: She feels the girl, with her talent, should be more aggressive.