Ode to Cross Country, A Sport for All Seasons

I. Summer
A licorice aroma, is that wild fennel?
Mixes with pine and sand and clean air.
An apothecary of molecules,
Carried on the rapids, insistent,
And musically I know where the river must dip
And rise, the bass drum of depth,
The floating soprano skimming over smoothed stones.
Bird song composed to recall expanse,
Not grounded.
Asynchronous, raucous, lightly
Orchestrated to surprise.
Not so much tan as dirty, the demarcation
Of where my socks meet the narrows above ankles.
trail sand and dirt clinging on me as if I can carry them to safety.
Roots, shadows, rocks try to trip me
But I stay grounded while I fly.

II. Fall
At the gym today a proud Dad talked about his son the football player.
He also excelled at track.
I found myself wishing he ran cross country instead of playing football.
The start of cross country season is like no other magic.
At the gym today, as I lifted weights with my almost 48 year old prowess, I recalled similar sessions,
Back when I was young and had a team.
Weights and sit-ups practiced amidst the other teams with larger arms and legs.
This after piling into the Coach's pick-up truck bed, no permission slips in those days.
Carted off to a better place to run then the streets around school. We stayed grounded
While we flew.
Season started with leaves crunching underfoot. In California we don't have that,
But I have found that abandoned mussel shells crunching underfoot on beach runs
Hits the same spot of satisfaction.
Season ended with near snow or actual snow. Near snow is a certain feel in the air,
The visible breath on exhale. Actual snow means fall is over,
Except there might be one or two more random days inviting runners to wear shorts.
Nothing is more peaceful that a run on freshly fallen snow.
Not one damn thing.

III. Winter
It was early in January this year.
Downtown Portland.
On the river.
The people in the hotel room adjacent to ours had loud sex.
Awkward, when it is you and your eldest child listening, silence broken
By giggles. "#Soulmates" was all I could think to say. Stork stories are long past.
Sun up, looking with sleep-crusted eyes down 14 floors onto
Snow. Snow on the streets of Portland.
The world is a miracle, or else about to end.
Either way, shoes laced up and good running friend is met.
There is nothing more peaceful than a run on freshly fallen snow,
Through campus and along the river.
It was so quiet I seriously wondered if the world was at an end.
Where was all the ambient noise, the orchestrated city bustle, the slap of shoes
Against pavement?

IV. Spring
Spring marathons are a challenge.
You have to train in the short daylight of winter,
Dark when the alarm goes off, dark when the work day ends.
Just when I seriously start to wonder if the world is going to end,
Days elongate and orchestrate to surprise, with frogs peeping and birds tentatively
Offering their song.
Trillium bloom, then Purple Iris.
Fiddle leaf ferns unfurl.
Season starts with dead, soft redwood fronds underfoot, just as new lime green buds are sprouting at The ends of Redwood branches.
Not one damn thing can make a spring marathon easier,
Except the sun offering just a little bit more of itself than it has in recent months.
And the smell of Eucalyptus on a rainy day.
Everyone is so hopeful on the morning of a spring marathon.
At the starting line you can feel like the kid who toed the starting line,
First meet of cross country season, gun about to go off, young muscles still,
The still before the storm.
Like no other magic.