The horned lark favors a bare field.
Yellow nylon shorts, willing to glide
into crimps and gentled spans, as needed.
As needed, the singlet in scarlet,
which is also a towel, a headband,
a scrap to sop up excess perspiration.
The axillary funk, odor of the groin.
In the hacked terrain, his jerk and lurch.
The way the shrubbery scrapes his knees.
The rare spectator, who comes
to this inconspicuous stretch
between start and finish,
to attend his rise and stumble
across small heaves of shortgrass,
who hears the quick and slapping sound
as the runner propels his sleek body
forward, closing in.