Again today a study
proves our immortality.
To run, however long,
reduces the risk of death
by twenty percent
in a sample of two hundred
fifty thousand.

And now they are running.
Running against the certain stone.
Running on the slim trails of hope,
gathering ticks as they brush
the closing blades.

The path gets thinner, old friends,
Narrows to a deer-path.
But the whitetail seeks only water,
forage, such sweet leaves -
never the headlamps, no,
never the headlamps
that creep up the road.