The bib reads unattached—
unspoken for numbers pinned across
light blue jerseys and race ready shorts.
No big box sponsors flashing logos
anticipating to sell more product,
and feeling physically fastened to swift legs.
Numbers moving across paved streets like gazelles
crossing the vastness of Africa in the heat
of summer, with only soft footprints
untraceable except for native inhabitants.
No pit stops, partners, or panic when following
pink and orange chalk marks guiding the way.
Only sounds of silence, swiftness, and steadiness—
breathing alone, and glorying in the still nights of summer.