Author's Note: I wrote this at the conclusion of my first Cross-Country season. For those who may need some background, Cross-Country races are usually somewhere around three miles, and in addition to the team score, you compete for individual placement.

"Season's Over"

Season's over, now

racing is finished

'till next blush of fall—

forced hills

cheering crowds

start pistol's sulphur smoke…

Now nippy Winter's down settles

on the ground

on me

flies, blown on the breath

as a figure traces

a lonely path—

up and down streets,

hills, breath puffing in white clouds

but she is

at the starting line, bounces

with anxiety

high-fives teammates, who are

competitors

announcer calls

still now

hush

just breathe

and then—crack!

off for a few meters

smells sulphur smoke from the pistol

a second, breathes it—

now it's gone.

girls pull ahead

she pulls ahead

hill coming up

not tired yet!

flat now, run like the wind

or tries, catches someone

burst of speed to pass, keep it up!

downhill now, catch a few

three glorious miles

tough race, girls start to pass

uphill, too steep!

push it—wills the legs

crests the hill!

the exertion catches up,

moves in a wave down

the body, legs turn to ice

and next runner is twenty ahead

three miserable miles

She turns now

new road

uphill

snow, like fluffy flecks

of winter's clouds

settles softly

stops to catch one on her tongue

and now, with newly discovered

vigor, continues

up the hill

crest

and fast!

the mind shifts, images flicker and move

from the real

to the imagined;

how heady! yet improbable

and yet she is there

uphill

passes three, push to the

bottom, four more,

strung out behind half a mile

the air is

cold

crisp

lovely, as she

pushes to the last 100: and as never before

sees first ahead

kicks

fast

flying!

sprint to the finish

crowds cheer

Coach beams

herself full of triumph

winner

first place, others

strung out half a mile behind her

heady, intoxicating

and yet,

when she opens her eyes

she is only a girl

breath puffing white and too hard,

only a girl running

an abandoned gray street

under gray winter skies

as the snow swirls and falls

she is only me

she is only me