The Runners

Here or there hundreds of them, phantom-like, bobbing in place at street corners, then lifting their knees suddenly and leaping into the densest, loudest traffic (of briefest trajectories, of shortest views), in transit yet at ease, breathing, loping, like bearers of distance and pure direction, darting half naked out of nowhere and where, where in the world are they running to? swift and solitary, silent beings who, should you now step into the path, have dodged away, or, if you raise a hand to stay them to speak, immediately are gone: who are these runners who create in their gliding such fine, singular spaces among the street’s vociferous jargons? —as if each one were a still, wordless message or question one would answer if one could grasp it, this one, that one, sliding past, going away, while you stand there, your hand raised to no purpose, your hidden heart rejoicing that the quick heel won’t soon, won’t ever, be overtaken, although you, as you have longed to, suddenly disburden yourself and follow follow.