The grass stains on his knees, the sleeves of his arms. These are reminders of his living.
Earth’s crumbs find their way into his shoes, and he gleefully presses them into pancakes, as they soften, grow wet, in the perspiration between his toes.
Amidst the foliage behind the house, he runs freely, without regard to the obstacles of flora and fauna and everything in between. They give way to his body, his spirit. Like the plant life of an ocean floor swaying to the rhythms and energies of passing currents.
For just a small moment he stops, grabs heaps of breath, places his hands atop his knees.
For this moment he considers what it all means in a world so different. For this moment, and for all the intermittent pause in between, he wonders what his life will be like without them.
If the oak will continue to crunch beneath his sneakers; if the dewy reed will continue to slap condensation against his shins; if the grass will continue to stain.
But he stops. Tells himself he can’t.
And continues running.