Running Circles

It cannot be winter.
Not when a gentle wind stirs the yellow grass,
and a sallow-looking sun warms my back.
It is just barely too cold
To walk in bare feet across a stone floor.

Then again, I should not judge the season’s worth
With so narrow a mind.
The memory of the winter last resides so prominently there.
I forget that snow is an anomaly.
That I will most likely never again walk down the center of Broadway
A friend on either side,
Every car in the county locked away in its garage,
The children free to roam the empty, snow-covered streets.

Then again, things happened last year.
People changed.
Even the weather seemed to take notice.
For once I predicted correctly, just as I had every year before,
That something was coming.
Something.
Anything.
Else.
It was more of a hope than a prediction.
But something did happen.
An upheaval of sorts within the mind.

When the rivers flooded, your blood ran the faster.
It pumped through your heart and spurred you onwards to your follies.
When the snow fell, I fell too.
But only further and further into my regrets.
In the end, I think we all learned something.
We all ended up hating someone
For the monster they unintentionally made us
And we all cast our glances away from the demons we made.
Something.
Anything.
Else.

I quickly step from the stones into the grass
Which crackles under my feet.
They were colder than I had expected, but the grass is a comfort,
Warmed by the sun.
I stand there, hesitantly, as if to flee at a moment’s notice,
Though I know not what harm I may find in my own back yard.
I listen intently to the sounds surrounding me.
And those absent—
the spitting and droning of a lawnmower,
the wind rushing through leaves,
the sound of grass growing.
Everything sounds so dead these days,
The wind giving up an empty sigh
Of resignation.

Opening my eyes, I find myself joined by a companion of sorts.
A glimpse of white in the surrounding ecru.
Listening to every movement.
Poised to run,
But seemingly calm.
Only the subtle twitch of a long, soft ear betrays its rapt awareness.

And then, in a flurry, my forgotten prerogative flies from beneath my legs.
Hackles raised at the supposed intruder,
Hurdling across the lawn on muddied paws of murderous intention.
Not that I blame my poor dog,
But my eyes widen with the realization
That no white rabbit could have come from anywhere
But the warm comforts of a home.
The terrified creature now racing around our tool shed is loved
By somebody.
Although I don’t realized it, I’m screaming.
Yelling at my quickly closing in dog
To quite her chase for all that is holy,
And maybe that strikes a chord
(or perhaps it is the gratuitous coaxing afterwards)
That persuades my proud hunter to trot back to the safe confines of our house.

But the rabbit keeps on running
Despite the lack of danger.
Blinded by fear,
All it can do is run circles
Around and around again, just like me and you.
Towards something.
Anything.
Else.