The color of winter

Fog on the mountain
and the snow is ankle-deep;
I ascend into whiteness.

If winter has a color,
it is silver, no doubt.

Silver.

Kings desire it,
demons fear it,
thieves wield it
in the dark of night.

Nature lays it down indiscriminate,
in snowflakes,
and the sharpness of icicles,
to confound the sense of beast
and runner.

I ascend, and breathe it in,
nature's silver;
cold and metallic
it sinks deep into my core.

Time is lost
in the mercuric pool
of silver in my veins.

It dissipates, between steps,
like snowbirds scattering
before a predator,
until my foot
inexorable
completes its journey to earth
landing in the snow
with a muffled thud
and a cloud of powder.

Time resumes
and I exhale,
crystalline,
my breath all gleam and frost,
leaving only the metal
folded into my soul.

A Mile in Four Laps

Gun
Blam! The starter's gun!
Twelve hungry men leap forward
Blaze through acrid smoke.


One
The Man leads them out
Elbows fly, jostling bodies
The Pack streams behind.


Two
A Rabbit jumps out
Another tight on his heel
The Pack compensates.


Three
Watch clicks and Coach grunts
Thundering down the back stretch
The Man plus two, rise.


Four
Ding-ding! The bell lap
Two surge, find another gear
The Pack gasps, splinters.


Tape
Desperate bodies lean
The finish tape snaps!
Floating gentle t'earth.

[kind of a haiku homage to Quentin Cassidy]