(for Mary Bisconer)

I saw you running, Mary, on page one

Of the sports section.  Ah, for that we’re made!

Our primal fathers thought that it was fun

To run across the sun-baked plains.  Afraid

Of something new, the beasts that made the grade

In strength and swiftness gathered breath and fled.

The patient game that early humans played

Left many of those mighty monsters dead.

Hunted beasts, when they hear your rhythmic tread,

Your measured breath, can sense their peril.  See

Alarm in their wide eyes – and smell the red

Blood as it rushes through them hopelessly.

Yours is a primal sport, my dear: no lie.

I know you’d kill the same damn beasts as I.

–Tom Riley

(See !)