Second last in a field
twelve, will its long preparation leave it ahead, or last? Go right to the
source, it’s always on a steady course, talking the time of day. Its fetlocks
would move against the clock, its nose may head just as directed. And it’s off!
The rider thrills to the spring, veers within narrows wide enough to breathe.
Positioning is everything, even when the end is fixed. Rapidly its silks time-lapse
by, rose and green in contrast to July’s shot grey, January’s two blues. Into
the straight and it’s over, for another year, places incidental. [Answer:
November]
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