We’re running, across the plains, through tall grass that bows as we pass. The morning sun stares at us, blinding us until a layer of clouds intercedes on our behalf.
We are long limbed, graceful and full of youth, caring for each other as we race along, fording cool streams of snow-melt. Our tracks pepper the sandy soil in anticipation of aeons of transformation into fossil remains.
She paces herself, encouraging our children who are many. Our children learn to run with efficiency and grace or give themselves up to those who track us, the carnivores who train us, keep us strong.
I find myself falling further behind as my days increase. The miles are too far and too many. My lungs struggle in the dust of my progeny kicked up as they follow the path of our ancestors. My ancestors, I have run enough, and can smell the age on my skin; I will join you soon enough, although not today. Each day now is a chose between the end and not today.