Who’s Steering?

I can’t breathe.
There isn’t enough time.
I may have used my air up
waiting, smoking, worrying.
Maybe I should have moved more,
had more activity.
The pace is quieter,
fainter
inside.
I must breathe and fly
where air is even rarer
for practice
to practice
for Silent Olympics

I race my shadow first.
There are no other racers.

The cloud
has no respect for earth,
but sails and sets
at finish line,
the sunset ribbon

There is no choice,
but sun,
the benchmark,
to tell who has won,
no measuring of possible.

The question’s not
what’s driving you,
but who is steering.