Sage brush towered three feet overhead. I crumbled the dried leaves. Musky, sweet. Wild, free. We followed the clues of the mustang. Deep hoof prints in the pumice sand. Pale, dusty to fresh manure piles. Wild grasses cut short from their nibbling along the Adobe Creek. Crest the butte. Spotted their large heads on the horizon. Sneaking quietly. Ducking behind the tall brush. The black horse turned to watch us. Feral. Power. Impossibly beautiful.