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.


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