I run in oddly warm December air
and chase the orange, evanescent sun.
Inhale, exhale (a runner’s form of prayer),
I run in oddly warm December air.
A stranger joins me on the asphalt trail.
We speak in measured rhythm, then—he’s gone.
I run in oddly warm December air,
My heart burns like the evanescent sun.
Published in the December 15, 2017 issue: View Contents