Page "belles_lettres" Paragraph 57
from
Brown Corpus
They went after the squall as mercilessly as a wolf pack after an abandoned cow.
I followed them in the jeep and now they did not care.
The games were over, this was life.
Occasionally, for no reason that I could see, they would suddenly alter the angle of their trot.
Sometimes I guessed it was because the rain squall had changed direction.
Sometimes it was to skirt a gulley.
Their gait is impossible to convey in words.
It has nothing of the proud stride of the trained runner about it, it is not a lope, it is not done with style or verve.
It is the gait of the human who must run to live: arms dangling, legs barely swinging over the ground, head hung down and only occasionally swinging up to see the target, a loose motion that is just short of stumbling and yet is wonderfully graceful.
It is a barely controlled skimming of the ground.
Page 1 of 1.
2.463 seconds.