It is a cold morning.
The grass, during the night,
Was busy itself adorning
In drops of dew white.

The runners are aligned
Across the black road glistening.
The wild wind wails through the pines
As they all lean listening.

At a loud snap of flint
And a puff of smoke black
The line breaks in a sprint
Down the long dusty track.

The race disappears;
Its sound quickly fades,
The coach left to his fears,
Hopes for runners he made.

Mere minutes pass ere they return.
Yet, for the coach, it is eternity.
The runners their places did earn,
To his joy, the winning coach was he.

The race is done,
His team the victor.

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