A WRITER'S WIT
How do you know but ev'ry Bird that
cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos'd
by your senses five?
Born November 28, 1757
of a man or woman running, you know
for a measly fraction of a second
the man or woman runner is airborne.
That, for me, is the entire glory
of running, not that of winning races.
All those airborne fractions of a second
add up to endless hours of flight.
If you could put all those moments
together, how far, imagine how far
you might fly. Could you see yourself on the
moon, or some equally desolate spot?
Running always makes you fit, but running
can make you creature to a kind of flight,
defying gravity right before your
very eyes in one last photo finish.