RUNNING IN RAINSTORMS

You have to like the ping of drops striking
neck and legs like buckshot, trail so pocked
with puddles shoes and socks soon water logged,
the swerving path you tread defeated by
hidden cavities and earth that caves
in with your weight. You have to like the splatter
of mud that dots your legs and arms and face
with brown measles, the wind that blows sideways
blinding you, the stumbling, near falling.
You have to like to be alone, no birds
in howling wind, all deer, raccoons, and skunks
found shelter, just the rain and you. You have
to like to shout, to laugh out loud, to howl
delight back to the day. You have to like
being drenched as water finds its way
from chest to gut, inside your pants, your face
so wet, the water flowing down your cheeks
you’d think you were weeping, not out running.

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