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:
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.
(received a third place award in a Dayton Metro Library poetry contest)
Today's word: thudding