Run

Footsteps on gravel slip into soft padding on rock. The trees sigh in dismay as I turn with shoulders raised.

Warmth floods through me, within and without as yellow lines are crossed.

Swerving beasts delay progress but soft crunching ensues, alternating now in an unsteady rhythm, dancing over white.

Songs are sung to commemorate the day and great crafts bellow their praise over the water.

Soft whines become trails of silver racing by, blinking red an afterimage.

Rougher, slippery rock leads to crunching unceasing, the warmth without rising quickly.

Bitter rain wets my back, rioting in my eyes, but a buzz grows uproariously as more shade appears.

The final construct to my morning safari another sigh, of relief, for he who rests with aching feet.