the run of the flightless bird

  • Sunday, March 11, 2012
  • 1
I was a quick wet boy, diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes wide on my plastic toys Then when the cops closed the fair, I cut my long baby hair Stole me a dog-eared map and called for you everywhere
(Iron & wine, Flightless bird) 

Today when I run it is the run of the flightless bird. I run to and fro with  flapping arms, jerky gait and bobbing head. It's not pretty. Neither is it fun. I am watched by the tree's, black, humourless and without sympathy. I make rude gestures and guttural shouts toward them but they remain silent and stoic. Normally I am fluid and free but lately I seem to be rooted to the ground, my feet as heavy as clogs and my running stiff, mechanical and devoid of joy. I blame it on the fag end of winter, my seasonal malaise. My head is not right, not in the game and I crave sunshine and warmth.
In any case I drudge on for some heavy and joyless miles before returning home in disgust. I do not peck the ground.

1 comment :

  1. Cheer up Duncan, sounds like you me and Jerry need to hit the Downs again soon for some galloping fun in the foothills and Kent!