apricot is the shot in the dark
of the light of the trees, heavy and hot is the sun
that big ball or blot, depends on how you see
soupy is the day that i dare rue
this morning i liken to launch, cannonball
through the
stew
far and few
foot strikes upon the earth
i delight in sounds of songbirds
molted melting melody that pleases the Lord
in tandem with
a high-strung
harmony
that sings in my grace-filled
bones
for the little wrens i deign to give wide berth
those wing’d ones who decide to chew
worms
in the crosshairs of a crosswalk
blinking angry
the red hand
that causes
pause

try i do to wave at each unassuming face encountered; the fast walkers, the construction workers, the beggar on the corner, the child in the basket. i don’t want them to think runners are mean. i notice the others like me—fists pumping, slicing through the atmosphere in a rhythm i’ve yet to fully understand. we’re both barreling through the salty sultry summer air, flying towards whatever designated finish line we’ve designed in our primal auto-pilot minds.