The silent, dark, untouched stillness of the country house.
Children sleeping safely in wooden framed bunk beds,
their bedroom door closed softly against the sound of percolating coffee.

Cool, summer mornings before dawn.
Wet earth and cut grass,
a warm ceramic mug in hand bringing
rich, hot syrup to lips, to mouth, swallow.
Calibrating caffeination
like a sunrise of the mind.

Clench of shoelaces pulled tight, securing the foot,
maximizing strength and performance
in the snug and pillowed embrace of running shoes.
The gentle toss of gravel underneath pacing strides,
rising heartbeat, and the warm circuitry of pumping blood.
Heavy breath, deep and alone, drawing sound amidst awakening nature.

Cows turn their heads, chewing cud, and slightly startled,
The redtail hawk gives lift, rising from the fence post
to glide upon growing solar winds.
Trickles of water, gliding over stones, falling short distances,
splashing and cascading as the runner crosses the creek,
the morning cold still hid in the lowest recesses of the earth
kisses his skin as he passes over the bridge.

Brownsnakes slither aside,
speckled Great Plains toads hop out of the way,
large grass spiders scamper from the path.
The sun’s first sliver breaks over the oak trees on the horizon
like a swelling lip of fire painting the purple morning
with a beauty that burns the eyes if you stare at it for too long.