JOGGING IN THE PRESIDIO

A laughable and solitary art,
This running. Yet as I head toward the rise,
The snap of gravel underfoot is part
Of loveliness-of wind, Van Ruisdael skies,

That grove of eucalyptus just passed through,
And, here, the mobile shade of fir and pine.
Though wayside sceptics eye me, I pursue
Nothing particular, nothing that's mine,

But merely leaves brought down by a hard rain
Last evening, the clear wind the swallows ride,
And the grass over which my shadow bends
Evenly uphill as I hit my stride.

TWO FOR THE ROAD

1. Night Transit -Florida, 1971

A latter day in June in the Everglades:
The bar is sheened with beer, and the local belles
...