Runners in the Snow Two hours in, we trudge the ridgeline, lead-legged, faces numb, rime of breath-frost ghosting our eyelashes, our beards, our backs bent under the glacial weight of miles. Our skinny dogs are weary from porpoising the drifts, chasing the echoes of last summer’s rabbits down dream- holes in crusted snow. Above the town/below the skim-milk sky, we find ourselves pinned to this landscape, no more free than the brush- strokes of crows who smear themselves across the flat, matte, hunkered-down hulk of cloud. The afternoon wears claustrophobia like a cloak, the chimney smoke pressed to the rooftops, the rachitic branch-tips of trees. No velocity, no escape. The horizon—shredded by steeples, the broken canines of peaks—seems fixed, phony, vanishing-point the gunmetal river pours itself into. A creeping quiessence: color-suck, sound-suck, ice-water coalesces in our limbs even as we drizzle ourselves over one last hilltop between forest and home. And then a cry like birdsong vaults from the valley, scarlet dialect our startled blood remembers. A kid, a pond hockey hat-trick, and afternoon’s chest cracks open, the day erupts into a whole new kind of awake. Joy is an iceberg, but sometimes it geysers from your heart like steam. So we haul ourselves up onto our toes, race each other over the crest, tumble into town in an avalanche of howls and hollers, the ecstatic singing of dogs. This is how spring begins. Brent Terry Brent Terry holds an MFA from Bennington College. He is the author of three collections of poetry: the chapbook yesnomaybe, (Main Street Rag, 2002) the full-length Wicked, Excellently (Custom Words, 2007) and Troubadour Logic (Main Street Rag, forthcoming 2018). His stories, essays, reviews and poems have appeared in many journals. He is working on new poems, a collection of essays and a novel. Terry lives in Willimantic, CT, where he scandalizes the local deer population with the brazen skimpiness of his running attire. He teaches at Eastern Connecticut State University, but yearns to rescue a border collie and return to his ancestral homeland of the Rocky Mountain West.
2 Comments
Leslie Humrich
5/9/2018 11:58:29 am
The words of Mr. Terry's poem perfectly re-create the scene in the artwork. Were I to close my eyes and have the poem read to me, the scene depicted in the artwork would immediately be played out in my mind. His words made me feel the dreariness, the exhaustion and finally the joy of the runner. Well done!
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Gary Patrick Manning Jr
4/15/2021 04:09:52 am
I spent 3 months running , laughing, and pondering our futures with Brent Terry. We were 19 years old.
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