I still remember
spring Sunday mornings
rustling covers and dreams awake—
“Great day,” he’d say,
“for the race,” emphatically—
as if we knew.
This cheery departure
for our father waving
at dawn streaming
from the Kaweah peaks
to mottled cottonwoods
along the river,
its glistening steam
rising into the light
had to be special.
“What race?”
I begged an answer.
“The human race,”
he’d say.
drycrikjournal 
Beautiful image and seems to contradict the thought of a race.
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That is and was the irony, I suppose, the random independence of awe-inspiring nature that could, for my father, not only outshine the mundane business of humans, but make that business beautiful at the same time.
You have hit upon the friction, the interesting part of the poem for me–all a true recollection of my father, a realist. Thank you for your insight.
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