Running is a Prize

 

And just like that, I can run

as wild as that dog’s

fuel scraping the sky.

 

Wind tipping the field

feet sailing each gust,

thumping a dangerous dance forward.

 

Two sticks in hand

almost left my side,

that dog would be crazed by metal’s flight.

 

The squelch of mud

moulding each foot,

a print that yelped to be framed.

​

The joy of landing never felt so good.