bohemian flats and back
67 degrees / humidity: 86% / dewpoint: upper 60s
A warm morning. Loud with cicadas. Sunny with very little wind. A good run. Early on, one of my quad muscles — maybe the vastus intermedias? — felt sore. I kept going. When I stopped to walk up franklin hill, it was still sore. By the end of the run, it hurt a little to lift up my left knee. Now, an hour later (and after blasting cold water from the shower on it), it feels better.
I ran to the hill without headphones; I ran back listening to Beyoncé’s Renaissance.
A woman walker greeted me with a good morning. Usually others greet with me just morning, but I think that’s mostly men. Do (many/most/some?) women add the good? Is the addition or omission of good gendered?
10 Things I Noticed
- someone singing a strange song as the biked above me
- music I couldn’t identify coming from a car’s stereo
- the click click click of a roller skier’s poles as they slowly climbed the franklin hill
- a brown leather couch parked at the bike rack nearest the trestle — was someone planning to drag it down the steps, either to under the trestle or on white sands beach?
- a few slivers of silver river through the trees
- a constant low rumble of the city
- a small black bug flew in my eye — yuck!
- at the bottom of the franklin hill, in the flats, the river was thick and still and covered with a thin layer of scum
- down in the flats, in a few spots, the river was still and acted like a mirror, reflecting the sky and the river bank
- In one spot, it shimmered silver. Why? It took me a minute to see the 2 rowers, each in their own scull/shell/rowing boat, disrupting the water and making it shimmer
The other day, I listened to a tinhouse lecture with Natalie Diaz about Building the Emotional Image. She discusses identifying the images that we are obsessed with. As I walked up the hill and talked into my phone about my run, I discussed 2 of my image obsessions: shimmering, sparkling water and how the sounds of the gorge — the hum of the city, the whoosh of the car wheels, the call of the birds, the buzz of the cicadas and leaf blowers — sing together. Here are the notes:
This beautiful poem I found on twitter last night by Sophie Klahr!
Tender/ Sophie Klahr
I spend late morning weeping with the news:
a black bear with burnt paws is euthanized
along the latest wildfire’s newest edge.
It was crawling on its forearms, seeking
a place to rest. I Google more; reports
leak out: the bear had bedded down behind
a house, below a pine, to lick its paws.
In hours before its end, officials named
it Tenderfoot, though some reports report
just Tender. later, I will teach a class
where we’ll discuss the lengths of lines in poems.
I’ll say a sonnet is a little song
to hold a thing that otherwise cannot
be held: a lonely thing; a death; a bear.