The Morning Mile

I am destined not to run, but to sputter slowly, to amble on, wheezing, as cars zoom past me, and cyclists, their forms exposed by spandex. Other runners pass, avoiding eye contact. Children scurry on, chasing each other. A kind elderly couple saunters by, holding hands until the end. Birds fly overhead, circle in wonder, …

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By Precy Larkins

flight the years stole away my feathered wings day by day purple-tinted barbs break off from the rachis, the once fiery-gold vane withering in pain but then you came and the azure gust you brought with you remembers my name your words coax downy white feathers to warm up an old, achy soul, make it …

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