By Way of Explanation.

The Chase. The thrill. Sweat lubricates your joints. Adrenalin fuels your muscles. Everything is in focus. Your breathing is smooth. Relaxed. The rhythm is your rhythm. The pounding of your feet against pavement keeps time with each breath and your body is in it's groove. The groove of fifty trillion cells beating the same tom-tom, slapping the same bass strings, and driving you forward. In pursuit. Blood pulses through your temples and back down again feeding those cells the oxygen they need. There is no other. Only now. Only it. You will have it. The Prey.

It's getting tired now. And you close in. Your pupils dilate and the big muscles of your thighs squeeze, your calves grow taut and you launch. And gravity gives way for a moment and you know you've got it. You reach your arm out and the line it makes to your shoulder and though the rest of your body is unbroken. You are an arrow flying towards it's target. 

Your fingers open, you're ready to snatch your prey, to bring it down and you miss. And the ground drives all the poetry from your body. You're a lump of flesh. Unresponding, soft, clumsy, pathetic, bruised. And some days, that is what it's like having kids.