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