sept 16/RUN

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
66 degrees / drizzle

Checked the weather app on my watch: 0% chance of rain. Ha! A few minutes in, a few drops, then a soft, steady drizzle for the rest of the run. Who cares? I barely felt it, or could barely tell the difference between drops of rain and drops of sweat.

Ran to the falls. No roar or rush, just a trickle. I doubt this short rain will help.

Stopped to look at the falls at my favorite spot, near the former fountain where Longellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha” is etched into the stone wall. The falls were hidden behind green. Instead, I noticed a few dartig birds. I think they were blue — blue is a very difficult color for me to see.

Started running again while listening to Renaissance.

quick life update for future Sara to remember: with very little warning, trying to figure out nursing homes and finances for elderly parents. A kid who is struggling with anxiety and depression and high school (which are connected but not necessarily in a causal way) — not wanting to go to school, but also not wanting to miss out.

I feel like I finally have a decent draft of my poem about punching waves. I recorded myself reciting it, then listened to it at the end of my run.

untitled/ sara puotinen

Look pal, this isn’t the
sea. Hell, this isn’t
even a proper
lake. Just a dredged out
cranberry marsh with
an average depth of
fifteen feet. And these
waves aren’t real waves. No
big rollers. No white
horses that thunder
to shore. Nothing pulls
you under, drags you
down. Still, people drown
here and when water
meets a strong wind, which
happens more often
these days, it’s ready
to rumble. Me too.
I square my shoulders
and stroke straight into
a small swell. SLAM!
All thought knocked clean out.
What’s left is air and
energy and body
as boat — oars for arms
shoulders as bow
rudder-like legs hull
belly. Whatever
this looks like, it isn’t
a fight. Stroke by stroke
crash after crash I
become worthy of
this water in the
middle of a marsh.