If running was scorned,
And people laughed at runners-
I would still go run.

In old clothes, worn shoes,
I sneak out, before the birds
can raise an alarm.

The pre dawn dark cloaks
my lonely loping figure,
seeking the shadows.

Eyes adjusting, there-
Under a palm, another
runner, sprinting hard.

She nods, passes me
a sprig of thyme, symbol of
our alien bond.

We run on. Rooted
in our souls, this need to glide
steps above the earth.