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37 The Bearing Heavy from her steady bellying, the mare comes due. No memory of ten Kentuckies or the horse farms east of Buffalo prepares you for the silk of that first fur. You’ve seen the Easter foals stilting in toy gallops by their almost inattentive mothers. You’ve known from watching what the breeding of Arabia will hone from all that spindliness: in weeks the fetlocks shapelier; in months the girth below the withers sinewed like a harp; in years the stance and prancing that will stop a crowd. But now the colt’s nose nudging for horsemilk nullifies a dream to come of stallions. Now it is enough to know that something can arrive so perfectly and stand upright among so many fallen miracles and, standing, fill the suddenly all-sacred barn with trumpets and a memory of kings. ...

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