The Runner

In that park there are

seven wetlands and a runner

on the trail, on their way,

between the grass and weeds.

There under the sun beating down

was a raccoon on the path.

It’d been in the weeds; now paused

to look up and the runner, down.

In their eyes was fear

and understanding for—

the weeds strangle all things in life.

The raccoon returned to the weeds,

the runner did not, for—

just around the bend

was the end.

J

Artist: W. R. Adams