In a corner of Ravlunda, Sweden, the sky stretches wide and pale, with slow-moving clouds drifting lazily. Below, the open land lies quiet, with the low shapes of horses stirring against the horizon. One horse, in particular, is caught mid-whinny, stretching its jaws to the heavens, baring a cavernous mouth and uneven teeth, as if laughing with the very land itself. There is something almost ancient in its cry — a raw, ungoverned spirit that no saddle nor rein could hope to quiet, evoking the hardy, free-roaming horses of Norse sagas, creatures that shared the storms and wild joys of their riders. The wind lifts the mane and tail, lending a wildness to the scene, while the muted earth tones of the horses’ coats melt into the weathered horizon. In this moment, nature speaks plainly: untamed, unbent, and utterly indifferent to the concerns of man.