Awakening

---

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.