Running the Northern Lights

By Anonymous Runner

It is December twenty two in the year of ought six,
seven at night and windy and cold.
Here are thirty-some runners with headlamps and light-sticks,
the tested, the newbies, the real young and the old.

All led to the starting line far away from the trail,
by the organizer, hoping that no one gets lost.
The GO word is said and the runners set sail,
forgetting the wind and the dark and the two-dollar cost.

Way up in the grounds of the old Northern State,
the trekkers meander, directed by arrows.
To finish five miles is everyone's fate,
on a treacherous path usually wide but which  narrows.

The sky is pitch black, the wind whips, and it's scary.
A skeleton man marks a turn in the road.
Old barn roofs bang on the forgotten dairy.
It's not for the meek, nay, more for the bold.

Finally they all see, down the way, far ahead,
through the trees and the dark the finish line, yes!
Marked by the big clock, the lights glowing red,
where they go mark their time beside their previous guess.

And now it's all over, the running's been done.
Chattering, eating, for the winners they cheer.
And as they drift off and away, by twos or by one,
you here the soft mumbles ... "Hope to see ya next year!"