Thursday short poem: Grace Butcher's "Do we Need an Ambulance"

Two of my running buddies are co-coaches of the boys' cross-country team at a nearby high school here in the San Gabriel Valley.  Over the past three summers and falls, I've done some training with the team, and developed a real interest in helping out as a volunteer assistant.  (I'd love to do some more serious coaching -- it's been offered -- but when I'd find the time, I don't know.)  I've loved my  runs with the boys -- though they are almost all faster than I am (I can still hang with the "B" team from time to time). 

It goes without saying that I am a lover of cross-country at all levels.  Somehow, to me, it remains the purest and simplest of sports.  And it's no surprise that a runner and a youth leader would love this poem by Grace Butcher, which mixes that most sublime of sports with an intense devotion to those agile, fragile bones of the young.

Do We Need an Ambulance for Cross-Country?

question from the audience at a sports medicine seminar for coaches

And the scene comes unbidden into my mind:
the runners at the far turn of the course,
behind the roughest field and into the woods,
among the deepest trees left leaning
after last year's storm.

The alien colors trickle down the path:
the red & black, the purple & gold, the green & white.
We strain to see the first brilliant flashes
through the dying leaves, but must wait,
murmuring to ourselves, "Where are they?
Where are they?"

I know where they are.
I sent them there.
I know every stone, every rut and hole,
every toot waiting to trap the delicate foot,
the feet of my slender animals,
claws scratching the dirt, striking sparks
from the flat rock on that sharp turn.
And I see one try to pass,
try to take the lead,
see the root reaching for him
with a thin gray arching arm
that will not let go.

I hear the snap of something else,
the scream drifts down the hill
through the golden leaves,
feel my face go white with fear.

I sent them there, sent all of them.
They go for glory
and because I told them to,
knowing all the while
how fragile the bones,
how fixed ahead the eyes are,
forgetting to look down, forgetting
in the beauty of the run
that anything can end in a second,
even when you are young,
and protected by the names of fierce animals.

I hear the answer.  It is yes.
My head swims. The auditorium
is too hot.  I leave abruptly,
walk into the cool darkness,
look up, find the first star, make my wish.

Comments

[Trish Wilson]

I thought you'd be interested in knowing that I know the first woman to finish the Boston Marathon. She's a friend of mine. She did it back in the 1960's. Her name is Roberta Gibb. I'm not a runner myself - my poor legs and back can't handle it - but I take frequent walks around the beaches and walking paths along the cliffs out here. Not in this weather, though. There is more than two feet of snow on the ground now. I can't wait for summer. I have to exercise in the house, and it's not as much fun.

[Kat]

I like to WATCH people run. Does that count? :)

Blogrolled ya, BTW.

[The Boys]

Hey man, we missed ya this morning. We all managed to meet at 8:00am sharp! You would have been proud, not one complaint in the bunch.....except for Zeke, he almost fell off the mountain!

[Hugo Schwyzer]

That's funny, "Boys." If only any of the mountains around here were actually open!

[annika]

"...among the deepest trees left leaning
after last year's storm..."

Lol, Hugo. leave it to you to find a poem about running with the phrase "left leaning" in it!

[Hugo Schwyzer]

And leave it to you, Annie, to have eyes and mind sharp enough to spot it!