The Boston Marathon had a gorgeous day yesterday -- often not the case. The following poem was written about the NYC Marathon but the thoughts are the same.
They run by the thousands through canyons over bridges through the park. News cameras look down from helicopters. People look out tall windows lean over high balconies line the crowded streets.
They run like once the bison ran over the Badlands the wildebeast still run through the savanahs fabled lemmings run over cliffs into the sea heroes ran the mountains in ancient Attica.
As they run many thousand feet pound softly their breathing is a mass sign in a city accustomed to sirens' screams. The crowds' cheers drift softly to the sky, Newscasters' chatter circles the globe.
They have been running Alone or in packs of two or three or a few for months, years. They leave behind home, wife, husband, children. Silence is enough for many, Some search for "the zone."
They run to win, or beat a record, or follow heroes, to prove something, "because it's there," "to do it once," to be, this one day, lost in the herd, part of something big and beautiful massive and magnificent independent individuals who trained and paid and stayed the course.
The mid-70s are a surprise! Part of me remains in the 50s -- age, I mean, not decade of 20th century. It's a joy ride, new experiences land in my lap and I've become a better quilter, poet, writer than I expected. It's a rich life for a person never rich financially. Hey, this is what the mid-70s are like!