Runner's Log: Highway C
On the shoulder, carnage: feathers,
bone, a red glove. Fear
is the patron of self-deceivers,
knees tight, instinct
trying to forget.
When I meet you on the overpass,
you're fervid as a novice
in your goose down vest.
Wind in the dry stalks,
tatters, shreds—a gradual
paring of flesh as we run, back-lit,
through these blaze-yellow shadows.
Be of good faith, the pine trees urge us.
Dark spires, bold
against a changing sky.
—Diane Unterweger, Nashotah, WI
