There’s a smell that coats the air

at the edges of water that laps

the earth at the bidding of wind

and swimmers, never the moon.

It reminds me of running,

lacquered by humidity and late evening

sunlight; jokes creased the air as our knees

battered miles to sounds of yelps

from the nearby pool, the woods

around us barely wild. Still,

the team’s slackers bragged they found a gun

twisted in the ivy at the edge

of the trail. Who knows if I ever

believed them. Those days, it was enough

after slow summer jobs or early autumn

classes: the sore muscles, evacuated lungs,

a pure attention to feet and bodies,

dirt and grass. Now, when I smell it

and the atmosphere rushes my senses—

a tunnel of green, a fetor of leaves,

even as I search for moments

on their own. No movement

but us and the distance between

each footstep and the last.