I run beside the bay, a ritual
to sift through the accumulation of
late night film noir that loops behind my eyes.
The sun streaks pink through early morning clouds
layered above the distant mountain range.
My ragged breath soon smooths to match the beat
of my feet upon the trail. Each inhale,
exhale, takes in, sends out, a low deep thrum
of hymn and prayer. And in these moments
night’s dark clouds dissipate, for here is real:
wisps of fog drifting soft above the waves,
the sudden puff of a seal, surfacing
and curious, pearls of dew on rosehips,
a wild rabbit, still, underneath a hedge.
Cindy Buchanan was raised in Alaska, has a B.A. in English from Gonzaga University, and was a preschool teacher until she retired. She studies poetry at Hugo House in Seattle, Washington where she currently live, and is a member of a two monthly poetry groups. She is an avid runner and hiker and enjoys every opportunity to be outdoors. Her work has been published in Chestnut Review, Evening Street Review, The MacGuffin, Hole in the Head Review, and other journals.