It ends somewhere
near where a giant gang
of wild turkeys

you have not seen
in weeks startles.
These smallest

deaths—a woolly bear
caterpillar permanently
stopped beneath

the overpass.
You know better
than to touch it.

Nearly finished
by a substantial disturbance
of Nordic bladers

as they pass you by.
Not a cardinal’s trace
interruption as it flies

from one grove
to the next. The greatest
distance ahead in collision

with a nearly empty
trail. Minuscule and alone,
you theorize all the other

runners

must be resting
and carbo-loading
in preparation for tomorrow’s

marathon. Your one
and only time
not so easily lost

in a tangle of other
borough memories
back east. In medias

res, the gentlest breeze
brushes your cheek
and a gigantic gust,

capable of great destruction,
could break free.
It could be the slightest

straw hue in the prairie
grass or blood red
of fully turned fern leaves.

You run your fingers
along the serrated edge
of a season that struggles

to start. And you tally
the tallest freight cars
as the train rattles forth.

It begins
with the tiniest
acorn that has fallen.