Early Morning

I'm not a power walker ... I don't pump my arms like a windmill ... my legs aren't a blur ... and the only time I pass anyone is when they're going in the opposite direction.

But I do walk.

Mornings are best, I've found. If I walk in the afternoon ... especially if that means missing my nap ... I'm a grumpy walker ... and I have more than the usual difficulty in maintaining a forward motion. I just don't seem to have as much energy.

So the morning it is.

Well, there I was ... walking ... actually, struggling a bit on the uphill climb during a morning walk out in Illinois. 

Although we were on vacation ... particularly because we were on vacation ... I was out early for my daily walk.

Summertime. Southern Illinois can be pretty steamy then. The air gets heavy, the legs are laboring, the lungs struggling ... and there I am (puff-puff), trying to make it up the hill. And then ...

But let's go to the poem:

Early Morning

I'm walking along, enjoying the prospect

of maybe making it all the way to the top

of a stubborn hill, when three young ladies

in very short shorts go legging it past me

and out of sight, as though I were standing

stump-still, but I really can't help admiring

the way they've crested the hill, left me

there, still laboring up the slope, recalling

a time when I might have overtaken them,

instead, and gone breezing past, but now

I feel my legs flagging, beginning to burn,

and I'm wondering if I can reach the top

(please be still, my thudding heart), and if

I do, whether I'll catch a glimpse of them

while I'm struggling to catch my breath.

© 2007

(received a third place award in a Dayton Metro Library poetry contest)

Today's word: thudding