Amalia Dorion
The brisk morning air,
Untouched by the sun,
Stings across your face like a lingering slap,
Aches through your quaking leg muscles.
The grass still damp,
As your feet stomp through it,
Connecting your body with the Earth,
Moving forward through the dew and cold.
Your nose runs,
Probably faster than your legs,
Your exposed fingers curl around your sleeve ends,
Grasping the shirt for one bit of warmth.
You cut through the crisp air,
Smelling the damp, dying leaves,
As the sun rises over the mountains,
Rising along with your pulse.
The dawn of running,
The running through the dawn,
A love, a passion, a beautiful art,
That stings and burns and pulsates through the sunrise.
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