The thunder rose from hooves — not from skies.
Beneath the May sun at Churchill Downs,
twenty horses surged like waves over earth’s skin,
but only one, Big Brown, found the rhythm of destiny.
Ridden by Kent Desormeaux, clad in colors that caught the wind,
they broke from the turn like a gust through a canyon,
each muscle memory carved from morning gallops,
each breath syncing with the roaring crowd.
Out of turn four, the world blurred —
roses waiting, hearts holding still.
Big Brown didn’t just run that day —
he flew on the edge of memory,
etched forever into the dirt and light of Louisville.