Dawn

Run Before Dawn

by William Stafford

Most mornings I get away, slip out
the door before light, set forth on the dim gray road, letting my feet find a cadence
that softly carries me on. Nobody
is up- all alone my journey begins.
Some days it's escape: the city is burning
behind me, cars have stalled in their tracks,
and everybody is fleeing like me but some other direction. My stride is for life, a far place. Other days it is hunting: maybe some game will cross my path and my stride will follow for hours, matching
all turns. My breathing has caught the right beat for endurance; familiar trancelike scenes glide by.

And sometimes it's a dream of motion, streetlights coming near,
passing, shadows that lean before me, lengthened then fading, and a sound from a tree: a soul, or an owl.

These journeys are quiet. They mark my days with adventure too precious for anyone else to share, little gems
of darkness, the world going by, and my breath, and the road.