Light explodes from darkening skies.

Not Sun,

Yet, light unleashing elemental forces.

The fragrance of recently mown grass

As would be remembered by a thoroughbred

Not so long ago a colt

Building muscle and endurance

Running like the wind through the grass just because

You were meant to run like the wind when you are a colt.

Cold seeps up from the turf

Capturing breath in small clouds.

Flesh trembles, not in fear, but

Chilled by expectation and by evening frost.

 

In that moment, Summer dies…

          And not the imitation of Fall we know in Texas

                Where leaves turn brown (maybe yellow) and fall to the ground,

          But the Autumn of New England

                 In which colors erupt and the change of season

                 Does not merely mark time,

But defines it.

Self-induced pain of preparation

Excites the spirit

Providing a point of reference for what is to come;

Showing the other colts the stuff you are made of, and

Convincing yourself you are of that stuff.

Blaring horns.

Pulsating drums.

Murmur turned roar

Filling ears and hearts.

Rush and clash.

Exquisite pain and dull ache of

Real injury and perceived failure

Imagined glory and true courage

Victory and loss

Fading colors diminished by sweat, mud, and grass.

 

There are those whose colors remain pristine

Having not crossed from outside the lines

Yet also brothers, not yet baptized by sweat, mud or blood

Brothers nevertheless

Wearing the colors with pride

Ready and willing to share accomplishment and pain

Even though not blessed with the skill or luck or desire or genes

                     of those between the lines.

Embarrassed only if someone is cruel or thoughtless or neglectful

(As is too often the case when hormones or tradition are involved).

 

The same muffled explosion that heralded the brightness

Calls forth darkness.

But not nothingness.

Rather existence subdued

Whispered

Glanced, not fully viewed

Slowed by exhaustion

Warmed by effort, physical and emotional.

Joy, measured by relief. Or,

Disappointment, muted by the expectation of another day.

 

I am not asking you to laugh or cry;

That you think of this as silly or heroic….

 

But

…It did feel this way on Friday nights in Texas, long ago.

 

 

© 2018 Russell E. Willis

First appeared in The Write Launch, Online Issue, January 2019