Beneath the wide and patient sky the emerald field lies still, Four colors flare — chestnut, sable, ivory, and will — Their flanks like breakers heave against the banked green shore; Hooves drum a rolling thunder on the yielding floor. A low, electric hum — a press of bodies, breath and silk, Riders lean like sailors at a sheet, fingers white as milk; One springs ahead, then stumbles, swallowed by the surge, Another cleaves the sunlight, swift where grasses merge. Gasps ebb ...