Marathon

The Boston Marathon had a gorgeous day yesterday -- often not the case. The following poem was written about the NYC Marathon but the thoughts are the same.

They run
by the thousands
through canyons
over bridges
through the park.
News cameras look down from helicopters.
People look out tall windows
lean over high balconies
line the crowded streets.

They run
like once the bison ran over the Badlands
the wildebeast still run through the savanahs
fabled lemmings run over cliffs into the sea
heroes ran the mountains in ancient Attica.

As they run
many thousand feet pound softly
their breathing is a mass sign in a city
accustomed to sirens' screams.
The crowds' cheers drift softly to the sky,
Newscasters' chatter circles the globe.

They have been running
Alone or in packs of two or three or a few
for months, years. They leave
behind home, wife, husband, children.
Silence is enough for many,
Some search for "the zone."

They run
to win, or beat a record, or follow heroes,
to prove something, "because it's there,"
"to do it once,"
to be, this one day, lost in the herd,
part of something big and beautiful
massive and magnificent
independent individuals
who trained and paid and stayed the course.