My feet pound the pavement, lungs like
a bellows. Late sun rests warm hands

on my bare shoulders. Slight breeze,
hint of honeysuckle, dogs

are out walking the neighbors,
a steady pace pumping

through my earbuds,
and sweat runs

in streamlets
that meet in a river

down my spine,
something divinely

primitive in a full
summer sweat.

It’s not for sight of the lilies
or the daffodils, not for the break

from the desk chair, not even for the fresh
air. I do it because my body is designed to,

because I can, because this feels like a celebration.