Feet pounding
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


About atucker

Provisional pronouncements and (hopefully) honest mistakes. I'd like to be differently wrong about things, and helpful to the world.
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