The Kettle Moraine 100
The genesis of a hundred-mile odyssey
A happy little caravan of running crows
Everything is alive: sky, wind, even the stones.
Hearts taping time, glittering with hope
Morning comes; the murder has thinned.
Smiles replaced by blood blister and grit.
The flesh is battered, bitten and minced.
The mind has played a million dirty tricks.
Folly has demanded its toll once again.
Finish line, just beyond the shimmering glade
where a jingle of tears and medals await.
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