You joke about waking up 2 kilometres into the morning run. The lights from the lamps stretch and collapse us as in a time-elapsed film; and you will have slept a dozen years before we reach the bend where the trees fall back and the wind, sailing over the lake, hits us squarely.
It jars from me a memory of a home.
pre-dawn mist becomes rain
the shadow crosses the trial
then the lone starling
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all rights reserved, if there is still such a thing: © Ren Powell
This is one of a series of haibun based on morning runs along the same 6k route.