Running in March

Standard

A runner’s draft
Unlike the familiar city taste to which I am so used
Cool and damp
With no cars, no engines, even the canal boats asleep
A Sunday breeze
Before the tourists who will soon pad out the square
My lungs fill
Before the cyclists, weaving one way and back
A free air
Unlike the choke I felt when once I raced
The mid-point
Between death and birth, rest and motion, winter and spring
I breathe
Ready for the hour ahead; I begin

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