When She Runs

The sun.

Beating down.
Or

sulking in the aftermath of a storm.
Or

a shy maiden,
stealing glances from behind white, frothy curtains

But always,
A silent witness.

The movement.

Rubber soles on the asphalt
the sidewalk, the grass
—sending small, concentrated shock waves,
deviant little notifications that you are here, making your mark

Muscles, tendons, sinuous fiber like pistons
—pushing forward, further, faster
A picture of kinetic energy
A biological factory taking in the light, the air
and exporting carbon dioxide and sweat

Hair, damp and bouncing
—a natural metronome marking the switch between left foot, right foot, left

The chaos.

Life.

It bursts forth
—flora, fauna—
and flashes by with each step.

At any moment,
peace can become

a tangle of limbs, fractured bones
—a victim of an upset balance

screeching tires, shouts of alarm
—an intersection crossing gone wrong

mumbled hellos, averted gazes
—seeing someone you’ve been trying to avoid

But is that not the thrill?
That with something so routine,
so innate,
there’s always the chance that anything could happen.

There is risk,
yes.

But, there is also
freedom
in the sun
the movement
the chaos.