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.


           – JAV, 11/9/14