On Clovis Ave.

across the street 

from the 5o mph signs

I jog as close to the sticker field as I can

avoiding the newish tar on the bike path to the left

and the cat calls of some random construction worker who’s bound to be sitting on the passenger side of his pal’s truck drinking a Big Gulp

next to the day after day trail left by tennis shoes on burnt orange clay, 

dusty socks, small dirt clods scrambling

 a sudden 

ground squirrel

 sprints through dead weeds

to my right,

tunnels through slender necked posts

beneath Fresno’s warm breath this morning 

she runs through the glistening 
as though there are no car doors

parallel to us

sucks quiet out of the hot air hovering above the dried oat straws