Swift winds run through the park, at dusk Carried on legs of leaves Temporary, as they blow from the path Onto the verdant sheet of blades Laid beside the pavement.
The contestants occasionally collide, And tiny whirlwinds Untether their foliage feet from the terrain As they fall onto the track Whistling merrily as they bounce upon the ground And rebounce into their lane To commence the runnings again.
No pace is kept And each man is one moment a sprinter And the next a marathon chaser The disciplines remain inexorably tangled In their fleeting eyes.