Ran earlier today, at 7:15. A little cooler, quieter. For the first few minutes, I recited Alice Oswald’s “A Short Story of Falling” which I memorized yesterday. Ran south on the grassy boulevard between edmund and the river road. Crossed over at Becketwood, then ran down to the southern entrance of the Winchell Trail.
Listened to the gentle whooshing of car wheels. the clicking and clacking of ski poles, and birds for most of the run. Put in a Bruno Mars playlist for the last mile.
After I finished my run, I recited Alice Oswald’s “A Short Story of Falling” into my phone. Only messed up one line (I think).
- click clack click clack
- the rambling root spread across the dirt trail
- the steady dripping — more than a trickle, less than a rush — of the water falling from the sewer pipe
- the soft (not mushy) blanket of dead leaves on the winchell trail
- the sharp sparkle of the light on the water
- shhhhhh — the wind passing through the leaves on the trees
- the soft roar of the city underneath everything
- the leaning branches have been removed — thanks Minneapolis Parks People!
- an almost exchange of the You and I — me: right behind you, excuse me an older woman with a dog: mmhmm
- no bugs, no gnats, no geese
3 tries: front / brine / crane
front runt stunt blunt hunt shunt grunt redundant
brine sign fine line shine dine design unwind spine twine
crane explain refrain detain rain insane
a: the principal front of a building
b: a decorated pediment over a portico or window
: an illustration preceding and usually facing the title page of a book or magazine
Cliché/ V. Penelope Pelizzon
Its back and forth, ad nauseum,
ought to make the sea a bore. But walks along the shore
cure me. Salt wind’s the best solution for
dissolving my ennui in,
along with these protean
sadnesses that sometimes swim
a glass or two of wine below my surface.
won’t untangle. Others loosen as I watch the waves
spreading their torn nets
of foam along the sand
to dry. I walk and walk and walk and walk, letting their haul
absorb me. One seal’s hull
scuttled to bone staves
wheeling above. And here… small, diabolical,
a skate’s egg case,
its horned purse nested on pods of bladderwort
that still squirt
BRINE by the eyeful. Some oily slabs of whale skin, or
—no, just an
edge of tire
flensed from a commoner leviathan.
Everywhere, plastic nurdles gleam
like pearls or caviar
for the avian gourmand
and bits of sponge dab the wounded wrack-line,
dried to froths of air
smelling of iodine.
Hours blow off down the beach like spindrift,
leaving me with an immense
of ruin, and, as if
it’s a gift, assurance
of ruin’s recurrence.
“The Crane Wife” parts 1, 2, and 3 from the Decemberists
swim: 1 small loop (1/2 big loop)
cedar lake open swim
First open swim with FWA at cedar lake! A great night for it: calm, clear, not too crowded. The buoys were up tonight. Hooray!