The day is hot, the kind of hot where the sun has made an optical illusion on the distance ahead, made it somehow appear as if it’s moving. The heat, in this case, is placed on the Amphi High School track. Definitely not a day for running much, in my opinion; not unless a refreshing trip to the swimming pool is included. My memory returns to my freshman year of high school, when we would often run in PE. But it’s the beginning of March, and too cold to go swimming as of late, yet the chill morning air usually transitions to weather in which it’s too unbearably hot to wear a T-shirt and run a mile.

Now, as I notice the position in which I’m sitting, the sun to my back and therefore shining through my pen as it casts an intriguing glasslike shadow and reflection onto the paper in front of me. Kids are just finishing up their track and bleacher runs, and I feel considerable sadness for the ones at the end of their class, reminding me of how out of shape I am now, not having run more than a mile in nearly two years, and nothing more than half a mile since fall break, marking the end of swim season practices; that was almost six months ago. Watching these kids run gives me the urge to start running and getting back in shape, too, but I digress; I notice my surroundings once again. The rays of bright, unforgiving sun shine onto the back of my dark shirt, and it is slightly bothering me.

As the sun lowers in the sky, it is no longer the hottest part of the day (luckily enough for the exercising freshman class), but in the distance the track still seems to be moving on its own accord, a mirage to cease some of the monotony as viewers (such as myself) stare on into the flat land ahead. I glance to my right, spotting a bee that clings onto the flowers next to me for what seems to be dear life, and I ponder why he is serving his part so dutifully, slaving away to prove himself in such an unrewarding society full of billions of bees exactly like him. As the winged fellow leaves, it stumbles across my attention that I’m surrounded by dead grass: not an oddity at all when it comes to this Tucsonan landscape.

I look further into the distance, my attention focused on the track, and I acknowledge the quality of the track itself from where I’m sitting up to the last point I can see how the track’s white painted lines on the surface have deteriorated from being trodden on countless times by countless pairs of shoes, for countless laps. It has also been beaten by the sun, baked from the Tucson heat, drenched by the rain, and frozen by the cold of many short but shocking winters, yet remains virtually untouched by the elements; it is, along with the bee, a constant reminder to stay focused on the duty at hand.