Running
Feet pounding
Landing
Pushing the Earth away

Toes cradle the ground
That thighs, grunting, push away
An orchestra of tendons

Exalt, for though you’re on a field
A pale imitation of a Savannah
Though your game ends not in death, but catching
And though you eat whether or not you succeed

The drive remains, pure, but attenuated
Weakened by underuse
The joy of running
The celebration that is chasing

Feeling the power
And the fit
And life

Advertisements

About atucker

Provisional pronouncements and (hopefully) honest mistakes. I'd like to be differently wrong about things, and helpful to the world.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s