I am the eight ball in the side pocket,
the stuffing of toys and dolls,
a bruised banana in a fruit bowl,
the sun in the grass,
the rapid winds in a hurricane,
the beginning of an earthquake.
I am the soul of the flowers, oxen, and little oinkers.
I am the combination of all these things.
When I am happy the bull-run and stampede will
become nothing in your mind and everything in mine.
When I am sad, I laugh with slobbers of tears
and frown with smiles of muscles.
When I am the tourist in the prairie, I am immortalized into heaven.
When I am running, you see the wind with shadows of many.
I am not
the person who starts