under ford bridge turn around
8 degrees / feels like 8
100% snow-covered (path)
0% snow-covered (sidewalks)
Wore the Yaktrax today. Not sure if it was a good idea. The trail was covered, but the sidewalks were dry. Bad for the coils, and probably my feet/legs. Not too bad, I think. Colder than yesterday. More layers.
I remember looking down at the river. Open, brown, a thin layer of ice in the center, shining a little. Beautiful.
I remember seeing a bird’s shadow pass fast and low just above my head, then thinking how I like sensing these shadows.
I remember seeing someone with ski poles descending the hill that leads to the ford bridge, then passing them later on the climb to the double bridge. They weren’t using the poles, but holding them off to the side while they did a strange shuffle run.
I remember seeing my shadow running in front of me.
I remember slipping a few times but never falling. Passing a few other walkers and runners, but no bikers. Breathing in the cold air. Seeing the dead clump of leaves that was on the trail months ago and that, when the wind pushed it a little, made me flinch.
I remember hearing a kid’s voice in the oak savanna, children on the playground. Staring far ahead at the snowy view in front of me. Feeling the warm sun on my face.
- my dead mother-in-law’s purple jacket
- 2 pairs of black tights
- a bright yellow TC 10 mile shirt
- a pink jacket with hood
- 1 pair of black gloves
- 1 pair of orange/pink/red mittens
- 1 pair of socks
- pink and orange striped buff
- black fleece-lined cap
I started all zipped up, buff over my ears and covering my mouth, pink hood up, mittens on and up past my wrists. Before the end of mile 1, the hood was down. Before mile 2, pulled the buff off of my ears. After mile 2, I put the mittens in my pocket. At mile 3, I unzipped my jacket slightly. My gloves always stayed on, so did the ear flaps of my cap.
This morning, I discovered a winter line in a Jack Gilbert poem (Meanwhile):
Winter lingers on in the woods,
but already it looks discarded as the birds return
and sing carelessly; as though there never was the power
or size of December.
With an epic winter storm approaching this afternoon (2 feet of snow possible + strong winds), it’s hard to imagine a time when winter will be discarded. But that time will come and it will always be the birds who will be there first, singing their careless spring songs.
Today’s Pastan poem is about windows. Pastan writes a lot about standing and looking out her window.
At My Window/ Linda Pastan (December, 1979)
I have thought much
the mute pilgrimage
of all those flakes,
and about the dark wanderings
I have stalked
all four seasons
and seen how they beat
the same path
through the same woods
again and again.
I used to take a multitude
of trains, trusting
the strategy of tracks,
I sailed on ships
trusting the arbitrary north.
Now I stand still
at my window
watching the snow
which knows only one direction,
falling in silence
towards the silence.