While out for a twilight run
without gloves or a jacket
hands seek refuge in shirt sleeves
bitter winds bite exposed flesh
rip through even clothed areas
hastening nightfall becomes a stark reminder
of my frigid error in judgment
Around a corner my breath seizes
breaking me from my piteous complaint
enraptured by the amber globe
that wondrously appears
hanging heavy and voluminous
as if its weight would soon crush
the houses below
As I run down the slope
toward the warmth of home
so, too, does the moon
dip below the horizon
as if it had never
been there
at all
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