The treadmills are busy treading busy feet. Staring at small screens. On make-believe trails.
I sit on a bench, spellbound. Captured. I am not running. Outside my glass and wall-to-wall carpeted tomb, I am.
An immense, swirling cloud bank meanders in gray and menacing grandeur. A parade of ephemeral bison crosses the ocean. Unhurried by time nor man nor me, these superb beasts are the mist—I know it. I need to know it. And below, the sun rises, a flawless diamond so clear it slices my eyes clean and shaves the jagged treetops flat. A veil of white is pierced. As witness, it begs prayer and tears.
My mind is in song, absorbed. My DNA climbs. I am of the clouds, I am of the sun, and I am of the harmony. One.
No one else saw. Only me.
They missed it all.
Majesty, not of small screens.