Running with poetry dripping from the brow. The words slick and salty.
Then there’s flowers.
Then these words. Purdy’s words.
“…. In springtime they glowed
with gleaming iridescence
not just a tiny bouquet like the colours on a mallard’s neck
before mallards existed
or like god’s earmuffs
before Genesis was written
and even tho nobody was there to analyze it
they nevertheless produced a feeling
you couldn’t put a name to
which you could only share
like moonlight on running water
leaf-talk in the forest
the best things right under your nose
and belonging to everyone” (Al Purdy – Early Cretaceous)
Then, without time to bookmark that thought, the run ends.