Losing Bett

He saw her standing
Radiant in her shining twilight glory
Her coat gleaming, her mane rivaling the splendor
Of smooth, cultured onyx
Head held high, fit for a crown
“Nine” he thought, then said aloud
Even the sound of her, Number Nine,
Made him sure; and glad in his sureness
He fumbled like a school boy to find her name
And again, the sound of her washed over him
Like midnight rain.
“Bett” he thought, then laid down
Before the visored man behind the glass
“All on Bett, all on Number Nine.”
The anticipation, thick on his tongue,
Whistled through the air between them.
His guardian in a sinewy muscled hind
His savior, this beastly angel
Never dared dreamt of, a gift like none before.
He longed to touch that raven mane
And sparkling, glistening, silken midnight coat
But longed, even more, to see her run…and win,
To show the strength he saw
In her might, in her commanding stance,
In the passion buried deep in her shadow-night eyes.
The gambler never would have guessed,
But when she lost he understood,
And realized why she always would.
She’d lose, not because she lacked
In talent, or skill, or heart, or passion, or grace
But simply because
She gave up.