Met on a hillside, to my surprise,
a rival appeared at my left side.
His stride long, glory of ’74,
two dueling foes, forged by the same sword.

The vigor of youth races with the sun.
I tried to rob my match of his fun,
but the path veered to his advantage,
the final kick—more than I could manage.

His lengthening stride low in the sun,
shadow’s running ahead—the race’s won;
our brief reunion sank into dusk,
till he pops up again—rising from the dust.

                               —•0•—