XC

Wading into a sea of humanity,
I scan the grounds looking for my daughter,
Awash with multi-colored awnings and bibs,
Cross-county teams from thirty schools,
Like medieval foot soldiers they stand,
Awaiting the sound of the gun,
Staring and waiting to begin their run.
They have assembled on this field,
On the edge of these woods,
To do battle with themselves,
Between the football stadium and the forest,
To test their mettle and skill,
To dig deep and find what they will.
Cool autumn day north of the capitol,
Banners hung at the start and finish,
Gun goes pop and the racers are off,
Mad rush to the top of the hill,
Then they disappear into the trees,
We make our way to various vantage points,
I find a spot about half-way through,
By a cornfield next to the new high school.
They come zipping by in ones and twos,
A pack of three followed by the rest,
Breathing hard and concentrated on the task,
We cheer and yell as they run past,
Cheering for one or all as fits our mood,
Then we head back toward the finish,
To watch these valiant souls push the limits.
They run back through the woods and down the hill,
Straight onto the track and around for half a lap,
Cheered on by the crowd gathered in the bleachers,
Toward the finish line next to the huge digital clock,
Then into the chute adorned with flags and pennants,
The course bludgeoned and beaten by their feet,
By the end of the season’s last cross-country meet.