Clouds overhead.
Mute.
Marching toward Ohio,
thunderous voices now hoarse.
Clouds underfoot.
Gruff.
Roused angrily by my passing,
footfalls like party crashers.
Voices outside.
Brash.
Wildly shouting intoxicated vows,
conversations in an organic bar.
Voices within.
Still.
Speaking of days lost,
summer’s epitaph on the forest floor.
Run: 4 miles, trails — Westwood Park
