- Vol. 03
- Chapter 11
Image by Bruce Connew
Night RaceThe 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.