Thirteen Miles

(or, Thirteen Ways of Listening to the Run)


A bird flies with
     instinctive purpose,
          but humans run with
     determined will.

   Rivers flow from beginning to end,
        all at once.
             Within every runner
        there is a river.

  The poem of the run
       is one without words,
             won without words:
        the run is the poem,
 
  life’s rhythm exceeding
        the sum of its beats:
             the drum of the run
        becomes the rhyme
 
   all at once:  it's the road
        speaking up to the feet, the heart
             sending will to the legs, the soul
        circulating the blood,

  all at once, the wind of the world
        blowing into the lungs,
             the breath keeping pace
        (keeping pace, keeping pace)...

  The race, says Qoheleth,
        is not to the swift,
             but time and chance
        are not what keep me going.

  ...it's the quiet salt rivers
        that roll off the face,
             like lines of a poem
        within a poem,

  the descant chant
        of muscles in tune
             with the length of the race
        and the time that it takes;

   all at once, it’s the senses:
        the dry lips of thirst,
             the sight of the bend,
        the scent of the breeze,
 
   the feel of the earth
        with the treadmills gone,
             the sound of the air
        without headphones on
 
  and the mind memorizing
        the song, but the song
             defies contemplation
        or singing along:
 
  the song is the run,
       to be learned on the run,
            all will turning to purpose:
        the run is a song.