Monday, November 20, 2006
Timeless fall sun dappled leaves crunched under foot as a blood red disc arced the sky to be found by small hands guided by eyes laughing, sparkling. Frothy drink washed down meats, fruits, vegetables in a cornucopia, colorful — red, yellow, green, brown — and rich with hands' labor given to friends.
All appetites sated, all cares forgotten for a while.
A distant horn sounded horses running. Riders splashed with shape and color urged their mounts on. People cheered: Loud, shrill, hoarse, shrieking. One horse caught another, now another, a rider unseated went down, popping up, unhurt —pride perhaps? — and a line is crossed at the crescendo. Decrescendo into milling, laughing, money moved hand to hand, talk emerged from blur to focus, explaining, complaining, restraining, examining the last 6 minutes and its import.
Five more times the horn sounded, horses ran, the cheers rose.
Then later:
Orange sun gone hiding, late afternoon clouds come blocking, left people turning collars up, donning another layer. Gone to fetch my warmth, the crowd distant but horses close. Around a turn they ran, first toward me, then bending toward a jump, white guiding, green challenging rider and beast.
My ears heard this: Only hooves and crops. No crowd obscured the real race of flesh nearer to me than in my life before. Muscles were seen, riders glancing back, glancing fore, snapping spanks prodded horses to their limit. A royal scene of ancient sound and vision flew by quietly, intimately, in the quiet moment at the far end of the track.
I was there. Close, not far.
All appetites sated, all cares forgotten for a while.
A distant horn sounded horses running. Riders splashed with shape and color urged their mounts on. People cheered: Loud, shrill, hoarse, shrieking. One horse caught another, now another, a rider unseated went down, popping up, unhurt —pride perhaps? — and a line is crossed at the crescendo. Decrescendo into milling, laughing, money moved hand to hand, talk emerged from blur to focus, explaining, complaining, restraining, examining the last 6 minutes and its import.
Five more times the horn sounded, horses ran, the cheers rose.
Then later:
Orange sun gone hiding, late afternoon clouds come blocking, left people turning collars up, donning another layer. Gone to fetch my warmth, the crowd distant but horses close. Around a turn they ran, first toward me, then bending toward a jump, white guiding, green challenging rider and beast.
My ears heard this: Only hooves and crops. No crowd obscured the real race of flesh nearer to me than in my life before. Muscles were seen, riders glancing back, glancing fore, snapping spanks prodded horses to their limit. A royal scene of ancient sound and vision flew by quietly, intimately, in the quiet moment at the far end of the track.
I was there. Close, not far.
# posted by goldpython @ 8:06 AM 
