The car crashed the gate and the band rushed for the parade ground, striped clowns with trombones, saxophones, clarinets. In Harlem's Palais des Sport, the French heavyweight swooped to the rafters, his satin shorts as bright as a macaw.
"Four."
A piano toured the Rio Grande, its lid raised as a black sail.
"Three."
Thinking Woman wore an embroidered Mexican dress with her turquoise necklace and silver pin, finally enough color, Anna said, for her.
"Two."
It was a slit trench for coaxial cable that had never been filled in. Maddened by the nearness of their destination, a thousand toads scaled the high shoulder of earth and abandoned stakes, and at the crest sang with pulsing throats. Those on the other side slid deliriously into the miracle of water.
"One."
Last step. Last heartbeat. Last breath.
"NOW!"
From the eye of the new sun, a man diving.
END OF STALLION GATE
Martin Cruz Smith, Stallion Gate
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