They stand with heads of wheat between them,
Above them a clear sky holds its breath.
A North wind plays across the field and circles the crop,
Still they stand, waiting, eyes forward.
In unison they break from their silence and run,
Each in step with the other, their chests rise and break.
Swathes of wheat fall before them,
Their two tracks fading into the history of the race.
Neither looks across at the other,
Their arms pump, their bodies as one across the distance between.
With purpose they increase the tempo,
Their pulses race, their hearts sing.
Into the day they run on,
Distant, a memory of what could have been.
Then they fall finally together,
as the light fades and evening comes to be.
Mike French July 07