There is a quiet chill as I run beneath the stars

No-one has yet trod this path
as it wanders between city and fields
Yet I find myself out running

The path is newly paved
There are no tree roots yet
buckling through the pavement
to lie beneath first snow
and like an old troll
grab a careless foot or delicate ankle

My breath like a mist before me

What do we run from? 
and what do we run to?

Its the golden hour between night and morning.
Its the hour before the first coffee is poured
Yesterday's bad news lies waiting to be read
The beauty of the day waits to unfold.

Running in the cold
I skirt the boundary between yesterday and today
between reality and possibilities

As I turn towards home
the first sunlight breaks the sky
The die is cast
The world turns
and nearby I hear the first crow.