Something in
the early morning air attracts me in its seeming simplicity, as breath in
hypnotic lecture tangles around my face, thick clouds threaten in the shadows.
With embellished delight I swallow hard, igniting my tongue against the tender
of my cheek. Pace unfurls ahead of the storm. Body dew drips soundlessly along
the arc of pavement. Running is a singular motion, a silent dialogue, a
presence of air and thought, and nothing more to cling to. It is a meditation,
a confession, a glimpse of calmness that runs through my breath and travels the
length of my thigh and shin, until it lays dormant on my laces.
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