You pick a hill
and you run to it.
that’s how days go on, isn’t it?
look up at the horizon
at the line of mountains rising and falling like an infant’s chest in slumber
they seem to go on forever don’t they?
forever and ever like an endless synchronicity paralleled only by
a soft sigh in followed by a short puff out, breathing
in
pick a hill
out
and run
your arms ache and your lungs burn and your legs feel like lead
but
you grip the hill with your eyes and cling to it
still
you reach the hill as the ground grows steeper but
you
rise the crest of the hill, just as you are about to touch the top,
you look up at the horizon
pick a hill
and
run.
