The gates opened, a blur of motion,
a constellation of horses breaking loose,
their manes streaming like promises undone,
hooves pounding the ground’s steady heart.
My grandfather, sleeves rolled to his elbows,
held the program like an ancient scroll,
his finger tracing names of strangers,
small histories stamped in bold type.
The smell of rain-soaked dirt rose,
hung in the tension before each race,
as if the air itself might bet,
urge its weight behind a clever hunch.
But the moment is clearest in pause—
his hand on my shoulder, steady, sure,
a half-whisper about luck, instinct,
and how some things can\'t be calculated.
I wish I had known to freeze it,
the sound of hoofbeats breaking time,
his face, softer than I’d ever seen,
caught in the gamble of one bright afternoon.