greenway bridge turn around, mississippi river road
16 degrees, feels like 4
Bundled up in my new favorite winter running outfit: two pairs of running tights, green shirt, orange pull-over, black vest, socks, buff, hat, gloves. Didn’t feel cold at all, except for my fingers around the 1 mile mark. Got to greet the Daily Walker. Forgot to notice the river. Did see steam rising up out of the rowing clubhouse below the lake street bridge. Did I see any other runners? I don’t remember. Saw at least 3 bikers. The ground is bare, except for some dead leaves. No snow. No ice. Just a cold path.
For some reason, I am suddenly into cinquains, a poetic form with 5 lines. I particularly like Adelaide Crapsey’s version (what a name!). 5 lines with the following syllable count: 2/4/6/8/2
Here’s one I found, that I especially like:
three silent things:
The falling snow . . . the hour
Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one
And one of mine, inspired by this poem and my morning run:
A Late November Run
by the river.
No snow. No ice. No leaves.
Just me and bare ground absorbing