Warming up in the arena

The arena is oval
intentioanlly making

the full circle of time
longer
to come back around.

And again, there she was
propped on top 

of the highest hill
and I, as usual, 

stood down on
the slope to the sea.

We smelt smoke
simultaneously
lifted noses and sought out the source
at the same time
the lighting changed 

at once, dramatically.

The sun, abased,
hid his face,
and then ashes fell in fat white flakes
resembling a December snowfall.

The chimes rang in the festivities,
discarding suddenly
the carols for a cacaphony.
Twas an ode to Saint Ana, played
in her lowest latitiude
in lieu of Saint Nick
from the shrill Northmost pole.

And again,
it was watching the horses
that knocked the wind out of me.
I found myself suddenly breathless,
trampled and tethered to death-again
it was familiar, like a rerun of hooves

and clapping.

Under a change of directional
winds, the brittle atmosphere
carried things this way

on a warm winter day.

Amid the sea of grey, the longshot,
made a circle of gates

sent forth as smoke signals and 

red flags at the finish line.

One time we will learn
it is by noses alone
that races are won
or lost.

Photo credit by cogdogblog (https://www.flickr.com/photos/cogdog/2672008614/) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.