the world sighs with him

The girl with the sketchpad 

is the lucky one here, 

 

half-drowsy and cooled by handmade fans 

in the shade behind the washed-out school, 

 

her throat parched and pencil too tired 

to keep its appointment with the page 

 

but beguiled watching the sunken-necked man 

in plaid shirt and overalls 

 

who stands at an angle on one leg 

and times the skinny boy around the track. 

 

The boy tears around once 

and his clothes race to catch him— 

 

the shirt and shorts too big for his frame 

billowing behind like sails— 

 

but the blur of his limbs in motion 

makes them nearly fill the gaping sleeves. 

 

Passing the man, he breathes loud and staccato 

and grins as he picks up speed, 

 

eager as an actor auditioning 

to play Prefontaine in the movies. 

 

He will grow taller than the man— 

the girl knows, her own brothers the model—

 

but for now her eyes 

ravish both of their shadows, 

 

the boy's sharp like a scythe 

cutting brutishly across the corn 

 

and the man's extended, one lanky thumb 

hung in his belt loop 

 

while the other taps the stopwatch. 

Does he know the splendor 

 

of his form along the grass, 

the silhouette that extends from his heels 

 

like a conquered road, a trove of private majesties? 

Here, now, the world sighs with him. 

 

It was patience that won here, that set this field green, 

this school towering to drink the sun. 

 

When the boy heaves to a stop, 

the man hugs him, tousles his hair. 

 

Their arms slung over each other's shoulders, 

they blacken the red dirt as they leave, 

 

both of them titans 

through a trick of the light. 

 

[Michael Miller, ‘Moment’, from The First Thing Mastered]