they run. muscles bunched under sleek skin
hard hooves thundering the green
heads rising and falling with the momentum of their earthbound flight.
sides slick with sweat, they run
the agile riders, in coloured silks, standing high in the stirrups
piloting the headlong charge
with heels and knees and flicking prompts
whispers, and whips.
in a mob, they run
manes and tails swarming together, like coarse waterfalls
brown and bay and black, grey and piebald
golden, silver too.
bodies a mass of concentrated power, from iron jaw to rippling leg
released from the blocks, they run
determined and frenzied
their strides mapping desperation and baffled fury
the joy in speed, the resistance to control
(who was it said, all life resents domination- ?)
for our amusement, they run
to satisfy our vicarious need to witness strength
to shape the contests of nature to our whim.
to have something to wager on, risk-takers that we are
pattern-seeking primates, who still believe
despite every evidence to the contrary
that luck is a person who can be gamed
rather than a force that cannot be harnessed.
and still they run. so beautiful, so fearful
and fearsome. they run.
and the spring turf is made dark beneath their feet
and the crowd cheers its manic cacophony
as they flash past the stands, nostrils wide, eyes staring
and they run, until
they are finally let to run no more.
- Kathy, 6/11/12
This is post 6 in NaBloPoMo. 6 down, 24 to go!
#527 Creepers d’Un Certain Age, Business Edition.
18 hours ago