Three Routes

Thirty years of forest runs,
same three loops.
Muscle memory so thorough
I ran them sleeping.

Then last Friday.
Sunlight where shade had been.
Forestry service took their harvest.

That new light showed
what I’d been running through
unseeing.

The Northern Loop.
Five hills like movements.
Two sharp ascents,
one gradual climb,
two quick drops.
I’d never counted.

The Pond Trail.
Dense canopy tunnel,
no road sounds.
Just breathing forest
and my breathing.

The Moraine Ridge.
Each turn revealing
beech grove,
rocky moraine,
beaver meadow,
oak plantation,
marsh overlook.

All these years,
my feet knew
what my mind missed.

Not just trails
but compositions.

That square of new sky
where pines once stood.
Not loss but punctuation.

Three routes worn transparent with use.
The kind of beauty you don’t notice
until light falls otherwise.