old like the dogs

the boys under the bridge, at the park, are practicing their back-flips.  there are no safety gears, just, their quickness, the agility of the young who believes in death like a miss in a circumstance.  a concept; but otherwise, unbelievable.  except, for a broken elbow perhaps, or a broken leg; or another broken bone.  even so.  their caution remains hung, at the wind.  and there are the skates, the boards, the bicycle wheels.  see them, young wolves in their young pack.  they see only, the distance between, their hands right across their faces.

                                                and life is, a speeding.  all of us, a running.  in packs, in twos, in alones.  and in some days we arrive, in some days we strive, in some days, we long to sit, lay, our heads on the mat, on the rug, on the quiet, of our own doorsteps.