Leaves curve in endless streams like rapids over rocks, obscuring the path below our feet and testing our fortitude. The hills encircling the valley do not forgive with gales whipping our windbreakers and stealing our breath while the sun teases us with warmth we cannot feel. Still, we run.
Cannons stand as sentinels on the trail, monitoring our movement while stationary under the wispy clouds and blue like the sky. Their mouths are cemented shut, silently protesting their symbolism. We run by.
A solitary oak leaf, suspended in the wind, valiantly fights to remain aloft as the biting wind tosses it closer to the branches from where it came before sending it to lay in the damp grass near the base of the trunk. The cannon wheels catch some of these leaves, laughing from the gaps in between the spokes and trapping them until spring, where the leaves turn to humus to fertilize the ground beneath. Still, we run.
We run as part of the moving world, treading daily on the ground and pounding out our existence to be heard–just once. So, we run.