The Cowboy in the Dark and his Horse

   The wind howled like a screaming banshee, and the clouds tore open, spilling their souls down down down, pounding on the dirt ground; a hammer on its anvil.
   Beneath the harsh beating he stood, head bowed, mane whipping around his sleek neck as the wind tugged and pushed. His muscles twitched under the harsh beating of the rain. 
   Lightning shot down, splitting the sky in half, and striking a tree making faint tendrils of smoke curl up, wafting, rising, reaching for the sky.
   The smell of burning wood reached him and he huffed, agitated. It was gone in an instant again, washed away by the waves of rain showering the lands.
   He stood, waiting, breathing, patient, dark eyed filled with fire and water streaming off him in rivulets.
   Thunder crashed above him.
   Thunder crashed, Lightning flashed, and it all happened fast, so fast. The wind roared, the eagle soared, the rain danced around him. 
   The dark figure, hidden by the downpour, was nearing him, getting closer and closer, the shape moulding, folding, twisting into a man in a pitch black tailcoat with slick dark hair plastered to his head. 
   The man shouted and his words were carried away by the wind, carried far far away and lost. His bird settled on the horse's back, feathers weighed like concrete bricks. 
   The man reached him and threw himself up on his back, panting, heart beating so hard in rhythm to the rolling of the deafening thunder from above.
   He knew what to do. He had waited, patient, under the the sea falling from the skies and the lighthouses of lightning; it was time to go now. He raised his head at long last, tensing his muscles, readying himself; a coiled spring.
   He flew along the hillside, disappearing into the night; him, the man, and the bird. His hooves drummed against the dirt ground; it was like a hammer on its anvil.