As thoroughbreds, roadrunners move their feet -
The sun, yet waxing, fires the desert floor -
A cloudburst, not in sight, may need to pour
What proves to those, in desert basins, sweet.
One, in full stride, dose need to be discreet,
As wolves are at his metaphoric door,
Or mountain lions, crouching low, nigh roar
As they e'en contemplate some feathered treat.
Ah, he depends on wit and bursts of speed,
As he, flat out, attends to what he would,
And nigh negates what seems a pressing need.
The air is hot, but yet the breeze is good,
And he, to doubt or fear, will not concede
What some, half-stepping, if fatiguing, could.