breaking morning with the birds,
she glides beneath the rising sun,
a vapor trail of sweat and spent breath
drifting in her wake.
muscles taut, brow poised,
a stream of hair - airborne ribbons,
and stones shudder beneath her feet.
thundering along the hillside,
she beholds the world as it fades from grey
and the truth of things is shown
with the death of night.
another mile and she'll turn around,
set course for home,
return.
maybe.
Meditate how you see fit. Do what you're doing, as you do it.