A Strange Bird Jogging Past My Window

Bent over like a stork on the prowl,
white running shoes and long black socks
over his calves and just below the knees
such a strange bird is he.
Running brief and naked chest,
not hairy like his top hat nest,
nipples bobbing in the breeze,
a facial frown,
short, shorter with the lean down,
white plumage and white beard tilting
him even farther toward the ground —
Is it his gait that keeps him from falling?
Will his arms begin to flutter madly
up and down instead of forward and backward?
He won’t fly, but the old bird knows that.
He will continue moving forward
at an even pace
and know that
for an old bird,
such movement is filled
with gratitude and grace.

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