The horses run at a dead gallop,
crowds cheering, bodies leaning
in an expectant wave.
I turn away and head to the paddock.
Among a circled few, my gaze
falls upon the chestnut filly:
eyes wild, knees curled into a dance,
broom-tail swishing in rage.
I see her leap,
kick out and draw in,
trapped in her fury,
hooves traveling from one rail to the next
seeking the unattainable—
hills, forest, or creek.
Then she takes a second leap
to try her new bones.
Someone screams, pointing
to where she stands trembling,
rust skin shed to the ground like an old blanket,
her body a maze of rich blood,
brilliant, thoroughbred.
No one dares to speak.
She is glimmering fire,
essential, faceless, primitive.