The sun had set, and a cold breeze rustled the fallen leaves by the stallion barn at Claiborne. In the dark, the trees along the paddocks whispered softly in the wind. From beyond the fields, near the home called Marchmont, the faint sound of a horse’s whinny broke the stillness. Secretariat stepped to the window of his stall. In the shadows, only the rims of his eyes were visible, his steady breathing the only sound. The whinny came again, carrying across the fields and fences. Beyond the salmon-colored sky and the stands of trees, the echoes of the racetrack seemed to come alive: the pounding of hooves, the roar of the crowd, and the announcer calling out the name of a horse,a lone figure charging the turn for home with unstoppable force. The moment lingered, a haunting reminder of Secretariat’s greatness, as if his spirit forever galloped in the hearts of those who remembered.
The Spirit That Never Stopped Running: Secretariat’s Legacy Lives at Claiborne Farm The sun had set, and a cold breeze rustled the fallen leaves by […]
