Martin will think back,

many years later,

about how often it seemed

like magic had infused the mundane,

or perhaps the other way around.

 

He will think of the trails,

dappled with light,

dappled with snow,

clotted with mud.

The same trails,

for ten years here

seven years there,

or three years down in Humboldt.

 

He’ll think of calling out to Maria

on his way out the door,

‘Just off for a jog’,

or, ‘just taking the dog out.’

Muddy shoes by the door

and a battered hat snug on his skull.

 

He’ll think of the dog,

leaping over stumps,

snuffling bone fragments,

shuffling, till he can’t take her anymore.

They don’t get another dog.

 

But he’ll remember her face,

so thrilled to be out there

and he now knows,

that he must’ve

looked the same.

 

Now, eight miles,

ten miles, twenty,

is a world away,

and the one

where he belonged.