How it must look
to the highway-hypnotized drivers
of NH Rt. 140
to see me bounding down the road,
I cannot imagine.

With shorts despite the snow on the ground
and hair that flops wildly with every stride
like a goofy sea anemone.
Without the reflective jacket
that the fading twilight recommended.
As their headlights cross over me
I'm sure that each and every driver is quietly saying,
"What the ..."
to the darkened and heated interior of his sedan.

I cannot imagine much at all:
only the road leaping to meet my foot,
again and again and again,
only the smell of winter nipping at evergreens,
only my legs, churning against the earth,
only my grin, which looks like a grimace
to anyone who isn't me.