trestle turn around
75% bare, wet, puddled pavement
A late afternoon run on a sunny, warm (warm for February in Minnesota) day! The path was wet, with lots of puddles, some slick spots, and lots of sloppy snow. Twice I had big slips. My one leg flew off to the side and I waved my arms involuntarily, but I didn’t seem to lose momentum and my body never felt the fear of falling — that fear deep in the pit of my stomach that quickly spreads to the top of my head and makes my whole body tense up.
- the warm sun on my face — it felt like spring
- the late afternoon shadows — I can’t remember a specific shadow, maybe shadows of trees over the gorge?
- a siren behind me as I ran up from under the lake street bridge. It sounded close and like it was stopping. I think I heard the siren double beep and then stop
- some little yippy dogs freaking out down below at the minneapolis rowing club. So frantic! What’s going on down there? I worried for a minute, wondering if I was actually hearing someone screaming, but decided it was definitely some exuberant dogs
- Also heard a strange moan or whine coming from the rowing club — not a human moan, but one coming from a machine
- so much whooshing of car wheels through deep puddles on the edges of the road
- lots of bikes deciding to bike on the mostly dry road instead of the be-puddled path
- my shoes and socks were soaked before I reached the first mile. After the run, the white socks were now speckled in brown grit
- smelled pot as I ran past a parking lot
- heard a few random geese honks closer to the river
I didn’t look at the river or notice the ancient boulders or greet the welcoming oaks. Didn’t hear any birds — wait, I think I heard a crow at the beginning —or music coming from a car radio or a bike or someone’s phone.
This was a great afternoon run. I like running at this time, when the sun is slowly sinking. My only problem: the paths are usually much more crowded. Still, I’d like to try and add in some more of these runs so I can study the sun and the shadows.
Here’s my Linda Pastan poem for today. I don’t think there were any clouds to admire, but I’m posting it anyway!
The Clouds/ Linda Pastan
From a high window
I watch the clouds—
of white sails
blown by the wind
from west to east, as if
auditioning for me,
as if they needed
than to be in a poem.
What a delightful little poem! I think this counts as one of Mary Oliver’s little alleluias on the page.