running away

Pounding the cement the persistent throb of my toe, rubbing in yesteryear's sneakers, gives way as the mile, then the miles go by. Roger Miller strums and croons idiotically then Eddie swings his ax, a riff and a beat drown away civilization's notes, the internal combustion engines that I run beside. Thrumming rubber rubs out birdsong and the winds that push branches aside, that whisper over shingles, in and out open porches, percussing unashamedly with storm doors and loose shutters. The cliche dog barks in a rude city where pockets of green cost more than the winter sun can give, it pierces the void, reigning under cotton candy skies. How difficult can it be to channel the jaguar, to hallucinate away the street lamps and naked limbs, hanging heavy with fruit only for a time, waiting the ravenous flocks to alight and greedily feed, to picture the plain sky blotted out by lush jungles, the pavement by fern and decay? Only pitfalls remain to the frozen footfall, freezing under December's dying season, threading a course over curb, crack and stoplight. Why does one climb a mountain, or run to winter's end? Because it's there.

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