The cold air is full of zeros not ones
heat lacking to switch on the binary
energy in the wind, my hands go numb
Chicago by the lake, along the trail
owl, ancient and snowy, watches me run
long, hard miles in winter, as coyotes
dance to stay warm, opossums race in fear
Angles not angels watch over my pace
in gusts over pockets called wind tunnels
run on forefoot to push forward in strength
Is the flying squirrel heavy enough
stones eight to nine weigh it down bodily
Forget everything about enjoying
ugliness as opposite to beauty
let all pre-conceived ideas in my head
leave to encounter the wilderness song
Obliged not to wear headphones as others
forge ahead into mediocrity
Zeros don't know professional trainers
even if the money were fluid gold
reality at fifty-two years old
orders the universe with greater care
suck it up the podium is not mine
No first, second, third: gold, silver, bronze, I
observe with a context and perspective
thrown aside for glory by young runners
Ones and zeros, zeros and ones, the cold
not only is exhilarating but
even allows for bragging rights for some
sitting pretty in a Half-marathon
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