Sense Memory

Today I had the sense memory of a pure moment. The car skidded to a halt along the road and I opened the door and hit the pavement running, my boots pounding, my legs pumping, the sun slamming into me hot and fierce. I reached the shoulder, steep and rocky, and saw my prey at the bottom of the slope, in a sprawling fall that raised a red puff of dust. I slid down the slope, my boots dancing across the unstable rocks, skittering downward, pulled by gravity, impelled by speed, dancing and sliding until I reached the bottom.  Somehow I kept my feet, though my body was twisted and contorted, I made a stutter step or two, lined out and poured on the speed. My prey had scrambled to his feet and was digging in, trying to run, trying to build speed, but momentum and youth were on my side and I overtook him in twenty yards.  At the last minute he tried to turn and fight, but I bowled into him and tangled his legs and we went down in the red dirt, me on top. A brief struggle and he was handcuffed.  I left him laying there in the dirt while I stood up and brushed off. Puffs of red dust rose with each slap of the hand.  I lifted him to his feet and dusted him off as well.  Words can scarcely describe the purity; the rush of blood, the fire of adrenaline, the muscles pumping, all wrapped in a game as old as time, as old as Man. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T