snow-coverage on path: 100%
mississippi river road path, north/south
I wasn’t expecting too much snow on the ground this morning, but there it was, covering the deck and the roads and the sidewalk. And when the sun rose more flakes appeared. Big heavy, wet clumps. I decided I would run anyway. The river road path wasn’t too slippery, just a bit sloppy and difficult to run on. I think my legs will be a little more sore than usual later today.
Walking through the neighborhood on the way to the river my feet made a delightful double crunch noise caused by the extra wetness of the snow. There was the quick crunch of my foot lifting off of the snow and then the deep rumbling crunch of my constant weight on the path. So fun to hear. I wish I would have recorded it.
It was a good run with negative splits. I didn’t care how fast I went just how strong I felt. I chanted “raspberry blueberry strawberry chocolate” again. Almost felt like I was waltzing at one point.
Before and after but no so much during my run, I thought about Minneapolis snow and how it seems to accumulate steadily through frequent dustings instead of amassing suddenly through big storms. It grows my inches, not feet. I decided to write about these snow dusting, first in free verse and then in ghazal form.
it doesn’t come all at once
just an inch here
half an inch there
waking up in the morning
to yet another dusting
not much but enough
to keep the ground covered
first soft and fluffy
then hard and crusty
a pure white blanket
then a dirty gray bank
not obstinate or malevolent
just always there
always covering everything
until it warms
or gets shoveled
always covering again
with a light dusting
there’s something exciting
about a big storm
a foot expected!
but “less than half an inch”
to dream about
nothing to wake up to
only something to shovel
Never all at once, first it’s bare—a dusting—
an inch here, half an inch there—dustings.
It happens in the middle of the night
then waking up to white everywhere—a dusting.
Weekly inches adding up to feet steadily
crystals congregate in cold air—dustings.
Soon molehills become mountains, blankets banks
snow comes daily without fanfare—a dusting.
These flakes never shouting, “Winter is here!”
always quietly declaring, “dustings.”
Week after week after week after month
so boring so constantly there—a dusting.
Minneapolis—why no grand celebration
no big party? So many small affairs—dustings!