"Oh, say, can you see"
The air bursting against his face
And reddened white cheeks.
His hair taught with wind hands
Underneath the slitted helment
As he glides downhill twice as fast as echo.
Malnourished eyes, sunk back, give forth
"By dawn's early light,"
Greeting him with open arms
Accepting his exuberance with gravity-movement.
A cycle, left+right+left+right,
Knows not up nor down just momentum
"What so proudly we hailed"
Exploded from winded lungs,
Air-drought from overuse and under-rest.
The two vacuum bags draw in crisp cool space,
Funnel out exultant-morning warm.
Pride to be born,
Pride to be granted freedom of motion
"At the twilight's last gleaming?"