Races

She holds the program with rigid hands
The wind dog-earing its ends
She is not reading the odds
Her eyes a glaze over the numbers

The white behind the words offers a solace
She lets the focus slip
Her eyes cloud with warm tears
The page now twisted by shaky unsteadiness
A single drop falls
Causing War Admirals numbers to run

The wind tousles her loose curls
And the spring warmth hovers against her ears
A heavy exhale is stuttered by a soft sob

The starter pistol sounds
She wipes the single tear complacent on her chin
Slowly, she lifts her head to the sun
Its rays beat upon her damp eye lids
The program is folded neatly and placed under arm
She regains her composure
The horses turn for the last leg
Their hooves pounding the soft earth