I'm so keyed up that I'm low on words, at least words that aren't expletives. But this poem was in my feed reader from a few days ago, and while it isn't about running per se, still it seems to resonate with me. There comes a point in every race (usually in the first couple of miles) where everyone in the pack is pounding along, breathing, making the turns in the course together.
by Julie Cadwallader Staub
I am 52 years old, and have spent
truly the better part
of my life out-of-doors
but yesterday I heard a new sound above my head
a rustling, ruffling quietness in the spring air
and when I turned my face upward
I saw a flock of blackbirds
rounding a curve I didn't know was there
and the sound was simply all those wings
just feathers against air, against gravity
and such a beautiful winning
the whole flock taking a long, wide turn
as if of one body and one mind.
How do they do that?
Oh if we lived only in human society
with its cruelty and fear
its apathy and exhaustion
what a puny existence that would be
but instead we live and move and have our being
here, in this curving and soaring world
so that when, every now and then, mercy and tenderness triumph in our lives
and when, even more rarely, we manage to unite and move together
toward a common good,
and can think to ourselves:
ah yes, this is how it's meant to be.
courtesy of The Writer's Almanac