On the backstretch they
disappear into the land. The
occasional rising of a head
is momentarily glimpsed.
Even from here, the pounding
of the earth is faintly heard.
The crowd remains silent
as they emerge from the
final curve.
Nostrils flaring, leather
and sweat, taught reins,
hooves ripping the dirt aside.
They are massed together.
People stand with arms raised.
Hats fall off, voices rise.
They break across
the finish line.
Roger Singer 