• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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Night Race

The crescent moon slashed the reflected stockade
like a bridle through the mouth that halted
all movement with a sudden jerk of the reins.
Pulled up, short of breath, panting,
pawing cracked earth, sweat shivering
on quivering flanks, tense with unreleased gallops.
The potential for speed, stilled in a
movement borrowed from the tide.