I won’t remember this
late spring pre-dawn run.
Record snows melting in the ditches.
The deer tracks in the snow.
The harsh call of a red-winged blackbird.
The flight of two honking Canada geese.
The familiar awakening of my limbs as I pass two miles.
I walk across the surface of an untracked field of snow
and the entire slab settles with a whoomp.
There’s nothing remarkable about the full moon
as it sets to make room for the rising sun.
So, I won’t remember this morning in North Dakota.
It’s likely that,
at some point,
I won’t remember anything at all.
— Eric Chandler
(This poem first appeared in Aqueous Magazine in December 2013)