Author: Sara Puotinen

3.25 miles
two trails + extra
58 degrees

A few nice days before rain then possibly snow! on Saturday and Sunday. I like winter, but this is a little early even for me. No headphones today. A great morning for a run. Wore my awesomely bright yellow 10 mile shirt from last year’s race. A walker called out, “have you recovered from the 10 mile yet?” (the annual 10 mile race was on Sunday–I didn’t run it) and I called back and then wondered for several minutes if I unintentionally sounded rude, “this is from last year’s race.” The river was shining. Noticed a glowing yellow tree–the yellow that still has a hint of green. Felt good and strong. Ran all the way past the ford bridge so that I could check out the fall colors framed by the bridge as I ran back north–this used to be one of my favorite fall views when we lived at the old house. Then, even though it was only a minute later, forgot to look up as I ran back under the bridge. Tried to spy, but couldn’t find, any wild turkeys. No eagles or hawks, just a few squirrels and dogs. Once I reached the 44th street parking lot, ran down on the Winchell Trail. Heard water spilling out at the first drain pipe, but forgot to listen at the second one. Heard the kids playing at the school. Glanced out at the beautiful blue river from the wrought iron fence. Discovered that finally, after months, they have removed the leaning tree. No more stories to tell about the yarn hanging from it or questions to ask about when it might fall completely or be removed. Instead of taking the steps at 38th, kept running on the Winchell Trail. Ran into some mud at the bottom where the parks department had cleared out some wildflowers. Ran up to the mesa and stopped. Studied the ravine as I walked back up the trail to the parking lot and thought about how this ravine can never be seen from above, even when the leaves are gone and the view is clear. The only way to really see it is to hike down in it…there might be something there to write about with being inside/outside…

Reading Ann Lauterbach’s Spell right now and found this small poem that includes so many words that I’m thinking about right now. Not sure if I understand it or like it, but felt like I should post it here today.

Nominal/ann lauterbach

Through the bare branch, a flutter.

I thought a flag was an immense wing.

Sky sliced through with long clouds.

The city is an avalanche; all torn down.

I have a bridge in mind; a river.

River, clouds, sky, wing, branch.

Flag. City. Avalanche. Bridge. Mind.

5.3 miles
franklin loop
52 degrees

Sunny. Calm. At first, rumbling trucks, annoying, overly precocious kids. Soon silence. Saw a squirrel and possibly a rat. Heard crows. Orange, yellow, red in the gorge. Still too much green–a glut of green. Got sneak peeks of the river through the thinning trees. Crossing over the franklin bridge glimpsed blue river. Smooth, barely a ripple. Ran under the shade of some cool trees on the east side. I always think of this as St. Paul, but it’s not until just before Meeker Dam. Here, it’s Minneapolis–Prospect Park. Lots of dogs and their owners. A women walk-running or run-walking or walking but trying to run or running but trying to walk–some combination I can’t quite describe. Heard the water that was seeping through the limestone gorge trickling down to the river–is this a strange sentence? too awkwardly written? Felt really great 4.5 miles in. Relaxed. Not too tough. After stopping, walked to the overlook near the welcoming oaks, climbed on the wall and looked out at the gorge. Still too hard to see past the green. I’ll try to remember to stop and check the progress of the view after my runs. Someday soon, I’ll see the river and then the other side.

Walked over to the split rail fence above the ravine and the sewer pipe that freezes in the winter and creates an icy tunnel, then drips blueish greenish water as it melts. The Winchell Trail winds around this ravine, over a steel grate and beside a wrought iron fence that once displayed dozen of keys with social justice-y messages until they were ripped out–by who and why? I wish I could remember the messages. A few: Be nice. We are One. Resist Fear. From up above, at the end of my run, I cannot see the ravine or the sewer or the keys. Sometimes I smell the sewer or hear someone talking below me, but I can’t see anything but green until the leaves fall in late October, early November. This is my favorite time at the gorge. I love being able to see deep into the gorge when its bare bones are exposed, its secrets revealed. I love the color palate of rich browns, pale blues, dull grays, rusted reds. I love the smell of mulching leaves, the sharp, crisp air, the paths that aren’t yet covered with snow but with crunching, crackling leaves.

One Heart/yi-young lee

Look at the birds. Even flying
is born

out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open

at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.

5 miles
franklin loop
52 degrees/rain

Wasn’t sure how long I was going to run when I left the house. Somewhere between the railroad trestle and the turn-off to franklin, decided to do the 5 mile loop. When I started the run, it was misting, then it stopped, then after I crossed over to the east river road, it started raining. Not drizzling, but raining. Still in my counting to 4 phase, I composed another mindless chant: I am running/in the cool rain/it feels so good/on my warm skin I didn’t mind the rain. A lot of the time I could hardly tell that it was raining. It felt good running. Encountered a few walkers–any other runners? Yes, at least one, near the franklin bridge. Watched the river as I ran over the bridge. Was able to get a few quick glimpses of the east flats now that the leaves are falling.

October (excerpts)
BY MAY SWENSON

2

Knuckles of the rain
on the roof,
chuckles into the drain-
pipe, spatters on
the leaves that litter
the grass. Melancholy
morning, the tide full
in the bay, an overflowing
bowl. At least, no wind,
no roughness in the sky,
its gray face bedraggled
by its tears.

4

I sit with braided fingers
and closed eyes
in a span of late sunlight.
The spokes are closing.
It is fall: warm milk of light,
though from an aging breast.
I do not mean to pray.
The posture for thanks or
supplication is the same
as for weariness or relief.
But I am glad for the luck
of light. Surely it is godly,
that it makes all things
begin, and appear, and become
actual to each other.
Light that’s sucked into
the eye, warming the brain
with wires of color.
Light that hatched life
out of the cold egg of earth.

7

Now and then, a red leaf riding
the slow flow of gray water.
From the bridge, see far into
the woods, now that limbs are bare,
ground thick-littered. See,
along the scarcely gliding stream,
the blanched, diminished, ragged
swamp and woods the sun still
spills into. Stand still, stare
hard into bramble and tangle,
past leaning broken trunks,
sprawled roots exposed. Will
something move?—some vision
come to outline? Yes, there—
deep in—a dark bird hangs
in the thicket, stretches a wing.
Reversing his perch, he says one
“Chuck.” His shoulder-patch
that should be red looks gray.
This old redwing has decided to
stay, this year, not join the
strenuous migration. Better here,
in the familiar, to fade.

The more I read through these lines, the more I love them. Knuckles, chuckles, spatters, leaves that litter, melancholy morning. The simplicity of: it is fall. The luck of light that makes all things actual to each other–but is that true? Hatching life out of the egg of the earth. The gentle commands in this last stanza: see, stand still, stare hard.