Legs

On a random baked day, as we see a lonely tree oozing ocean blue blood into the sky around him, and a lonelier leaf stares in last minute despair at the unsparing sun before he surrenders to gravity and the still air and falls a defeated foe, our memory fried, fails to understand a simple conflict that governs none but is a conflict nevertheless. As might is right creatures that can sniff out a problem even in absence, as absence is considered a horrendous void of problems to discern, we spot a pair of inseparable legs in the midst of an intriguing mindbender.
With no one to judge or present his opinion of the truth or make a compulsive decision, the two legs fight for precedence. The right leg says he wouldn’t be left behind. The left says he could not be right in front.
The argument grows, with each leg searching for a path in the seemingly leading to nowhere dry sand. And with each step, the other takes one as well, in an known reflex. At a juncture, of time of course and not of position, they refuse to move; as each leg learns that he has to but choose a direction and his sense of direction would prove that he were the one that was ahead. But as birth would have its restrictions, that was made biologically impossible, the tendons crackling and nerves falling sore in a disgusting lump at the slightest opposing movement.
As stunned dragonflies in a droll drunken end of the day buzz, the legs scratch the lines of lazy surrender to summer and fate.
But I love the games we play. I blink and clouds gather like silvery wool sheep in heat. The legs wake to a slathering rain that now promises to drown them. They stand in a military attention. Without a moment of forethought, they break into a run. Left right left! Left right left!
The question remains. Who came first.