By Jacob Daniel Perri, Eng. 201
His feet strike the cool, moist pavement in the frosty, autmn air.
The runner is winning the race to keep the lead.
There’s not a sound but his exhalation that forms clouds of white,
Sweat drips from his brow.
Beads of the warm, salty waterfall flow down his face and warm his neck.
Breath is now a fabrication of the mind as his lungs writhe under the continuous loss of air due to
the harsh, steep includes of the Pittsburgh terrain.
Country roads and fields of green become endless, ever onward to the sinking red ball in the near distant surface of the skyline,
Each streetlight blurs by as the ever dwindling late noon sun is engulfed by darkness
The moon marks the beginning of the vast darkness of the dense forest that is the evening sky.
The runner presses on towoards the finish line.