The snap of the whip makes muscles taut
As the haunches reach, digging deep
Hurtling the horse forward like a catapult
The rider springing to stand in the stirrups
Making himself lighter, more limber, a partner
To urge his mount to be aggressive, shooting
Like bottled lightning geared to mow the ground
That disappears behind him as he barely touches it.
And so is each steed with his rider
Expecting to devour the course and evict
It's stride, one after the other after another
Until at long last, stride no longer matches stride
And the victor, by sheer force of will,
Lays claim to its nose across the finish line.
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