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The trail

begins at the bay bridge: a shoestring
path worn into lakeshore grass.

It’s a good place to run— the ground
is knee-easy, stumble-soft. Your

companions are the oval-leafed locust tree,
the hop-happy rabbit, the glistening

wink on the crests of waves. (So much
motion in liquid, limb and leg.)

As you run the rolling hills
and meander the flats, you feel the gentle

sway of your shoulder blades, the sweat
dripping off your arms, the quadriceps’

flex just before footfall. (So much restless motion.)
No need for a holy book when you live in one.

© 2005 by Brian Powers

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