She examines the horse, poised on the tips of its back hooves and balancing as it stands tall on the clear glass tabletop. The curve of its back is a series of slopes and arches; almost a vertical posture as its front feet kick at the sky defiantly.
His mane is tossed back in frozen waves, curling into itself like a tornado, and the wispy tail is a whirlwind of incoming clouds. The dappled grey hide glints from a polish set into its grain. She wonders if he's even touching the table.
"Papa," she asks her grandfather as she settles her chin onto the backs of her hands, waiting for the rebellious sparkle to appear in its eye. "How long did it take for you to tame him?"
"Two months," is his gruff reply as he tinkers on a wooden cuckoo-clock on his work bench. "It took two months to bring him down to gravity."