Strands of wispy cloud seemed to beard the moon. Late night winds blew cool, a reminder that summer was still on its journey.
It was cool inside the barn, too, but not uncomfortably so. Still the mare, pacing slowly, began to sweat. It was the first sign that she was ready to foal. Stable help gathered for the vigil. Perhaps they were kept company by the sounds of music from a nearby radio. The most popular song of the day may have been playing on the radio. Del Shannon’s lament for lost love, Runaway, likely was on their lips, because almost everyone who had heard the tune sang along… “I wa.wa.wa.wa. wonder.”

Close to midnight and the mare went into labour. The mare was early and hadn’t been moved to the foaling stall in barn six at Windfields Farm. Her “due” date was still about a week away.

To the south, roughly three hundred miles as the crow flies, giant presses slowly rumbled to life in the womb of The New York Times. That day’s edition of America’s paper carried a story about the civil strife in the south and the words of Robert Kennedy, Attorney General of the United States, and brother to the most popular President in that country’s history, John F. Kennedy. “There is no question that in the next thirty to forty years, a negro can also achieve the same position as my brother, the President of the United States, certainly within that period of time.”

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