A horse's shoe-tips

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Standing still, just far enough away, the player breathes quietly. No wind, but a flash of sun from the wrong direction. We shift impatiently, but make no noise.

A swift, fluid arc and the iron flies. The clang allows us to take a breath, murmur our prediction before the dust settles.

It's good, not perfect, but enough for the team. They smile and grasp hands, turning to take a new place.

We approach the line, thinking anew of the sun and wind. The horseshoes weigh nothing in our clammy palms.