They sprint eight feet and —
stop. Like that. They
sprintayard (like that) and
stop.
They have no acceleration
and no brakes.
Top speed's their only one.
They're alive — put life
through a burning-glass, they're
its focus — but they share
the world of delicate clockwork.
In spasmodic
Indian file
they parallel the parallel ripples.
When they stop
they, suddenly,
are gravel.