Race

We hunch to bind the strings,
screw the spikes tight. To loosen tension
we flail our lean arms overhead.
Fog looms,
encircling our raw-boned shadows,
our eyes pinched
to view the miles of grass.
 
Our backs diagonal,
our hands on our knee caps,
the man counts to his queue
And fires!
 
A new air that brings lungs to torment
sinks inside us.
Fire blazes along our shins,
as mouths sag and eyes wilt.
Our strides shorten;
the two mile nears.
Shirts soak in spittle, oozing.
It is war, and we are prisoners of the sun.
Dew spills from our glands.
With a thin blue string in sight,
you are transformed into the warrior.