Out for a morning run,
one foot in front of the other.
Stop to chat with Gene.
“Lost one of our neighbors this morning.
Kidneys shut down. He was only 61.”
Moment of silence.
State our good wishes for the day,
keep on running.
One foot in front of the other.
Making my way up a hill,
leaves cascading down from the trees
tickling my face.
Close my eyes, smiling, enjoying the moment,
a flash of memory of my brother laughing,
recognition of joy.
My breath is gone.
I double over, clutching my body,
pain flowing through my limbs.
Yet I trudge on.
Determined to finish.
My body straightens,
even as the pain in my shoulder grows.
That damn raven digging in.
My legs are heavy now.
No more thinking.
Just one foot in front of the other.