Running Log – Page 16

oct 25/RUN

4.4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
43 degrees

Gray sky, golden trees. Past peak, I think. A clear view to the other side. Damp. It rained yesterday, just enough to get the falls dripping again. The creek was dry, but as I neared the bridge above the ledge, I heard some water falling. At first I thought it was wind in the trees, but then I heard a slow drip drip drip. As I ran above it, I glanced down. Yuck! An unnaturally green pool of stagnant water at the base of the falls.

I had planned to do one of my regular routines: run south to the falls, stop at the overlook near the “song of hiawatha” poem, put in a playlist, run back north with music. Halfway there, I remember that I had misplaced my headphones somewhere. I had found another pair, but not one with the dongle for plugging into my iPhone. I hate how Apple keeps changing their phones so you need new accessories. I don’t want airpods. I want my cheap lime green headphones with a long cord.

Had the memorial service for Scott’s mom yesterday. It definitely has not hit yet that she’s gone. Still in shock, I guess. Last month I felt tender, now just numb. A strange fall.

10 Things I Remember

the very loud vehicle I mentioned a few entries ago is still on edmund. I have decided it is a cement mixture. Today I was over on the river road trail; it was still so loud!
the pavement is wet with a few streaks of mud and lots of yellow leaves
kids yelling joyfully on the playground at dowling elementary
a runner coming fast down the hill from the ford bridge ran past me, quickly gaining ground, eventually disappearing around the bend
the whiny whirr of the park vehicle’s wheels. I can’t remember now what I first thought the sound was — someone/something crying?
a man in yellow jacket, exiting his car, waiting for me to pass before crossing the sidewalk
Mr Morning! mornied me. For the first time, I said hello instead of good morning. Not sure why
some bikers crossing in front of me near the minnehaha park playground
a bright orange sign warning that the road would be closed this saturday for an event: it’s the 1/2 marathon for the halloween race. Scott and I are running the 10k
no turkeys or geese or woodpeckers

Playing around with forms for a new set of vision poems about adjusting, becoming accustomed to my new vision. Today I thought about taking my favorite lines from a few poems — mostly E Dickinson’s vision poems — and embedding them in my own poems, or using the lines as the title for my poem? Still thinking about it. Right now, I’m thinking of a poem about my daughter’s hands as she tells me a story that I’m tentatively titling, The Motion of the Dipping Birds (from ED’s “Before I Got my Eye put out”).

oct 23/RUN

5 miles
marshall loop — up to prior avenue
62 degrees

Ran with Scott on a beautiful fall morning. Warm enough for shorts and short sleeves. Heard the bells at St. Thomas and the quick clicks of a roller skier’s poles. Crossing the bridge, we talked about the sandbars below that we thought were causing the streaks across the water above. Anything else? I remember hearing music blasting from a bike, and the doppler effect that happened after they passed. A bullhorn beeping over at St. Thomas just as we started running again. Wind rushing at us.

oct 21/RUN

3.35 miles
under the ford bridge and back
57 degrees!

What a morning! Sunny, low wind, only a little sliding in my knee. Noticed the river, but barely. Only a sliver of sparkle through the trees. Ran south and stopped just past the ford bridge. Took out my phone and recorded a note about a possible form for my latest set of vision poems. Listening back to the recording, I’m not sure if it makes sense. Poem 1: block text, bare/basic description of scene/situation; Poem 2: an erasure of that text that reveals more of how I adjust, navigate the situation — maybe by noticing a few key elements?; Poem 3: a haiku/tanka/cinquain that turns my adjustment into something more than almost: a new way of seeing/being? Not sure this makes sense. It’s almost there.

As I recorded, I stood at the edge of the trail, looking down on the marsh-y meadow between the small woods around the bridge and the road leading up to Wabun Park. 2 squirrels darted into the brush, making a racket from dry leaves and tall grass. At the end of summer, I remember running by this meadow and admiring the buzz and growl of the frogs and crickets and whatever else was living in it. Today, it’s pretty quiet. What’s living in there now? Raccoons? Turkeys? A fox?

After recording, I put in Lizzo’s Special, mainly to hear her sing, Hi, mother fucker, did you miss me? I’ve been home since 2020. I’ve been twerkin’ and making smoothies. It’s called healing… Then I started running. Switched to Beyoncé a couple of songs in.

9 Things I Noticed, 1 I Didn’t

the smell of smoke near the one house that always smells like smoke in the winter — on Edmund, close to Dowling
SO LOUD! passing by 2 trucks, about 50 feet from each other, running some sort of machine that was way too loud. I didn’t see, but I hope that the workers nearby were wearing headphones or ear plugs. Wow. I don’t think it was a cement mixer, but I’m not what else it could be — lots of rumbles and roars. Very unsettling
freshly redone sidewalk squares, bright white, sticking out against the old, gray squares
running on the dirt trail between edmund and the river road: a mix of roots and dead leaves and dry dirt
a woman, a kid, a wagon — I think it was red? — heading down to the Winchell Trail at 44th
passing a walker on the “gauntlet” — the dirt/grass patch between the lower campus of Minnehaha Academy and Becketwood that narrows near the road
another loud noise: a rumbling motorcycle overhead, traveling across the ford bridge
a man in a bright yellow shirt, sitting on a bench near a rock above the river
a group of four walkers, one of them wearing a white shirt and black pants, not taking up the entire path
what I didn’t notice: I don’t remember running down the small hill to the part of the trail that dips below the road then climbs back out. As I ran over it again, on my way back, I wondered, what was I doing when I was running on this before? how come I can’t remember anything about it? A moment lost. Love it when that happens

oct 20/RUN

3.1 miles
marshall loop
61 degrees!

Ran with Scott in the late afternoon. Wore shorts and my bright yellow 10 mile race shirt that I’ve been looking for this whole month. Finally found it. Excellent. A nice, relaxed run. Well, mostly relaxed. I was worried about my knees throughout the run because they were complaining a little, but they weren’t sliding so no worries. The thing I remember most about the run is the river. Running across the lake street bridge, heading east, the water was blue and dark and calm, with only very small ripples. Running back, heading west, it looked much rougher, brighter, and the sun was spread across half of it. What a contrast! Same river, different angle, much different view.

Threshold Gods/ Jenny George

I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week
I saw a real bat, crawling on its elbows
across the porch like a goblin.
It was early evening. I want to ask about death.
But first I want to ask about flying.

The swimmers talk quietly, standing waist-deep in the dark lake.
It’s time to come in but they keep talking quietly.
Above them, early bats driving low over the water.
From here the voices are undifferentiated.
The dark is full of purring moths,

Think of it—to navigate by adjustment, by the beauty
of adjustment. All those shifts and echoes.
The bats veer and dive. Their eyes are tiny golden fruits.
They capture the moths in their teeth.

Summer is ending. The orchard is carved with the names of girls.
Wind fingers the leaves softly, like torn clothes.
Remember, desire was the first creature
that flew from the crevice
back when the earth and the sky were pinned together
like two rocks.

Now, I open the screen door and there it is-
a leather change purse
moving across the floorboards.

But in the dream you were large and you opened
the translucent hide of your body
and you folded me
in your long arms. And held me for a while.
As a bat might hold a small, dying bat. As
the lake
holds the night upside down in its mouth.

Found this poem on twitter the other day. I don’t totally understand it, but that’s okay. I might get there after a few more readings of it. I picked it for the threshold, the bats, the swimmers in the lake, and these lines, which fit with my current vision project on adjusting and growing accustomed to new ways of seeing/not seeing:

Think of it—to navigate by adjustment, by the beauty
of adjustment. All those shifts and echoes.
The bats veer and dive. Their eyes are tiny golden fruits.
They capture the moths in their teeth.

Adjustments. Shifts and echoes. Always moving — veering and diving. All of this fits so well with my thoughts on seeing and peripheral vision right now!

oct 19/RUN

3.75 miles
trestle turn around + extra
35 degrees

Hooray! I ran again today. I think my kneecap is doing better. It didn’t slide around, and my knee isn’t swollen after my run. It felt strange a few times, and I was apprehensive walking back, but I think it’s okay. I need to remember to take it easy for the next week, and not run too much.

It was a beautiful day for a run. Brisk, sunny, not too much wind. A clear trail, a clear view to the other side. Less leaves, more river. I ran north until I reached 2 miles, then I briefly stopped to put in my headphones and listen to Lizzo’s latest album, Special.

I didn’t notice that much; I was too busy thinking about my knee and wondering if it would start sliding again.

image of the day

A tall bike! Running near the trestle, I noticed that the bike approaching me from the north was extra tall. Because of my vision and because I was looking into the sun, I couldn’t see much detail. All I remember is: an extra tall bike, a male biker. Cool. I looked it up and wikipedia says that these bikes used to be called lamplighters because workers would ride them to reach the gas lamps on city streets. It also says that some people still refer to them as lamplighters. Is that true? I hope so.

I did a little more research — I googled “tall bikes Minneapolis” — and found this cool book (and cool writer/artist): Butterflies and Tall Bikes by Jamie Schumacher:

oin artist and author Jamie Schumacher on a tour of one of Minneapolis’s most unique neighborhoods: The West Bank.

In her second book, Butterflies and Tall Bikes, Schumacher combines personal narrative, compelling interviews, and neighborhood history in vignette-style chapters that paint a picture of the West Bank Business Association and West Bank/Cedar-Riverside neighborhood. Detailed, mandala-like illustrations by artist Corina Sagun are interwoven throughout the text, and the book features a cover and map by Minneapolis artist Kevin Cannon. Interviews highlight the stories of West Bank characters and Cedar-Riverside residents, past and present, as they reflect on the community’s changing landscape.

Lamplighter makes me think of Emily Dickinson’s poem, “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark,” which I decided earlier today would be the focus of new series of vision poems. Lamplighter reminded me of this poem because of the 3rd and 4th lines: As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp/ to witness her Good Bye –. My poems will orbit around the idea of a moment after we enter a new phase/location/situation, and before we adjust to it.

ED’s moment:

We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When Light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Good bye —

A Moment — We Uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark —
And meet the Road — erect —

My moment focuses on the uncertainty caused by my vision — how that uncertainty lasts much longer because of my lack of cone cells, how my brain compensates and adjusts to a lack of visual data, how it feels to (unlike full-sighted people) not have everything immediately make sense or be clear, various tips and tricks I used to grow accustomed, etc. There’s a lot I could do with this: visual illusions, accounts of my mishaps and failures, descriptions of what I see/don’t see, and more.

The last stanza of the poem serves as a big inspiration too:

Either the Darkness alters —
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.

Last year, I spent time thinking about the almost, the approximate. I want to return to that and push more at what it means to dwell longer than I’d like in that almost, not quite, nearly there, only just, space. I’d also like to think more about how vision works, or doesn’t work, or works strangely, for everyone to different degrees. How what we see is not purely objective or accurate, where our eye is a camera faithfully rendering the real. Here’s an article I found yesterday that might help with that: The painter who revealed how our eyes really see the world

Oh, this is exciting! I hope this idea sticks and leads somewhere. I hope I find a form that fits and can hold all of these ideas!

oct 17/BIKE

bike: 30 minutes
basement, bike stand

I’d like to run this morning, but I won’t. I’m trying to give my right knee a break. So instead, I did a short bike ride in the basement. Hopefully, later this week, I’ll swim at the Y. No deep thoughts while biking, just the chance to move and get my heart rate above 120 bpms. Thought about starting the second season of Cheer! — I watched the first during the winter of 2020 — but ended up watching another track race. Maybe next time I’ll start re-watching Dickinson? I’ve started listening to the awesome poetry podcast about the show, The Slave is Gone, and I’ve been wanting to return to ED’s poems, and read the book I bought earlier this year, My Emily Dickinson by Susan Howe. Too many projects, not enough time or energy. Oh well.

Marie Howe and the Moment

Yesterday, I posted 2 poems from Marie Howe, Part of Eve’s Discussion and The Meadow, and I mentioned a third that I had posted earlier in this year on July 19, “The Moment.” Here it is:

The Moment/ Marie Howe

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment

when, nothing

happens

no what-have-I-to-do-today-list

maybe half a moment

the rush of traffic stops.

The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be

slows to silence,

the white cotton curtains hanging still.

This last line about the white curtains hanging still reminds me of an interview with Howe that I posted an excerpt from 3 days later. When asked about caring for her dying brother, she mentions a green, flapping shade:

being with John when he was alive in those hours and days in his room with the green, flapping shade. Sitting by Johnny and just talking in those ways for those hours and all the particulars: the glass, the sandwich, the shade, the bedclothes, the cat, the summer heat outside pressing against the windows, the coolness in the air, the dim room. The peacefulness. The sounds of kids on bikes outside. For once there was nothing else going on but that. That’s the freedom of it, right? What’s more important? Nothing. So you’re actually living in time again.

and also this:

That was really a big deal. I was given this place to be without any expectations really. And everything changed so that the particulars of life—this white dish, the shadow of the bottle on it—everything mattered so much more to me. And I saw what happened in these spaces. You can never even say what happened, because what happened is rarely said, but it occurs among the glasses with water and lemon in them. And so you can’t say what happened but you can talk about the glasses or the lemon. And that something is in between all that.

Reading her words here, and thinking about the death of her brother, has helped me to enhance/shift my understanding of a few lines from “The Meadow”:

But in this world, where something is always listening, even
murmuring has meaning, as in the next room you moan

in your sleep, turning into late morning. My love, this might be
all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget

what you are.

I first wrote about these lines on july 13 and 14, 2020. In those entries, I talked a lot about the value of forgetting. To forget what you are and just be, without judgment, giving attention to the light and the breeze and a flapping, green shade.

a few more thoughts about moments:

In “Logic” Richard Siken writes the moment before something happening and sleeping and possibility. I don’t completely understand his words, but they reminded me of Howe’s words:

A hammer is a hammer when it hits the nail.
A hammer is not a hammer when it is sleeping. I woke
up tired of being the hammer. There’s a dream in the
space between the hammer and the nail: the dream of
about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream, but the nail will
take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever.

Also, I keep thinking about a moment as not being a unit of time, but a location, that in-between space. And I’m also thinking of time outside the clock, which is a theme I’ve return to a lot, and that comes up in the bit of the poem I re-memorized yesterday:

Our clock is blind, our clock is dumb.
Its hands are broken, its fingers numb.
No time for the martyr of our fair town
Who wasn’t a witch because she could drown.

It’s also in the a few lines I wrote in my long poem, which I was calling “Haunts,” but am now thinking of it as “Girl Ghost Gorge”:

I slip through time’s tight
ticks to moments so
brief they’re like shudders,
but so generous
they might fit every-
thing left behind by
progress.

oct 16/RUN

3.25 miles
marshall loop
42 degrees / 16 mph

Overcast, a heavy white sky. No snow coming, just thick clouds. A nice contrast for the bright yellows and reds and oranges lining the gorge and neighborhood sidewalks. The best view: running back across the lake street bridge, from Minneapolis to St. Paul. Such vivid colors!

About 1/2 mile in, my kneecap seemed a little shifty. Do I need to turn back? I decided to walk for a minute and regroup. Started running again, still uncertain whether I would keep going or not. For the rest of the run, it sometimes felt strange. Or was it just that I was worried about it? I can’t decide if it — my knee, my leg, my calf — feels strange because I’m worried, or because it’s warning me? Should I take several days off to be safe? Probably.

image of the day

Running over the bridge, I noticed these foamy streaks on the east side of the river — not continuous lines, but dashes or slashes in the water. I wondered what caused them. Later, walking for a short stretch back across the bridge I decided it was the strong wind pushing the water, making little ripples. Now I’m wondering again: was it just wind, or wind and small sandbars below the surface?

Last night, I recall reading something about how low the Mississippi River is this year and about some rock formation near St. Louis (I think?) that you normally can only access by boat, but now you can walk to. Okay, I looked it up. It’s Tower Rock and it is near St. Louis and here’s an article about it.

Before I went out for my run, I re-memorized my favorite part of one of my favorite Halloween poems. It’s from “A Rhyme for Halloween” by Maurice Kilwein Guevara:

Our clock is blind, our clock is dumb.
Its hands are broken, its fingers numb.
No time for the martyr of our fair town
Who wasn’t a witch because she could drown.

Now the dogs of the cemetery are starting to bark
At the vision of her bobbing up in the dark.
When she opens her mouth to gasp for air,
A moth flies out and lands in her hair.

The apples are thumping, winter is coming.
The lips of the pumpkin soon will be humming.
By the caw of the crow on the first of the year,
Something will die, something appear.

Oh, the mood this poem creates! I love it. I intended to recite this in my head as I ran, but I forgot. I think I was too distracted by worries about my knee.

Found this poem on twitter yesterday. It’s from Marie Howe, one of my favorite poets:

Part of Eve’s Discussion/ Marie Howe

It was like the moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand, and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop, very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say, it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only all the time.

I want to return to this poem and think about this moment some more, and the last line. And I want to compare it to some of her ideas about moments, like in The Moment or The Meadow:

The Meadow/ Marie Howe

As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so
the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together

and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.
Imperceptibly heaving with the old impatience, it knows

for certain that two horses walk upon it, weary of hay.
The horses, sway-backed and self important, cannot design

how the small white pony mysteriously escapes the fence every day.
This is the miracle just beyond their heavy-headed grasp,

and they turn from his nuzzling with irritation. Everything
is crying out. Two crows, rising from the hill, fight

and caw-cry in mid-flight, then fall and light on the meadow grass
bewildered by their weight. A dozen wasps drone, tiny prop planes,

sputtering into a field the farmer has not yet plowed,
and what I thought was a phone, turned down and ringing,

is the knock of a woodpecker for food or warning, I can’t say.
I want to add my cry to those who would speak for the sound alone.

But in this world, where something is always listening, even
murmuring has meaning, as in the next room you moan

in your sleep, turning into late morning. My love, this might be
all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget

what you are. There will come a day when the meadow will think
suddenly, water, root, blossom, through no fault of its own,

and the horses will lie down in daisies and clover. Bedeviled,
human, your plight, in waking, is to choose from the words

that even now sleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled
among them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.

oct 15/RUN

3.3 miles
edmund, south/river road trail, north/edmund, south
35 degrees

It felt warmer than 35 degrees to me. Was it because I warmed up on my bike in the basement before I left? Maybe. Listened to Beyoncé and Renaissance as I ran. Favorite song today: “Plastic Off the Sofa.” My right kneecap, the one that’s been slipping out of the groove seems okay today. To be safe, I ran all the way home instead of walking the last bit. I’ve found that it’s mostly okay when I run, but starts to shift more when I’m walking after my run. Why? Bodies are strange and so hard to figure out.

My view to the other side is getting wider! More leaves leaving everyday. I don’t remember noticing the color of the river, just that it was bright and shiny and beckoning through the trees. Saw two roller skiers skiing side by side, the swinging of their poles in sync. I didn’t hear the poles clicking because I was listening to music. Also watched the graceful gait of a runner as they passed by me. Beautiful to watch their feet lift off — so high, so bouncy, so rhythmic!

Near the start of my run: one wild turkey in a neighbor’s front yard, looking a little frantic or wary of me running by. Did they hiss? If they did, I didn’t hear it.

As I neared the old oak tree that stands next to the ancient boulder at the top of the tunnel of trees, I noticed that it was golden — not a bright, vibrant yellow, which is sometimes what I call golden, but like gold leaf that’s slightly tarnished, past its prime, a glow that’s fading.

The Beginning of the Beginning/ Phuong T. Vuong

Who decides where a river starts? When are there enough
sources, strong currents and water wide enough for its name?

In Colorado, the Chama begins in smaller creeks and streams,
flows into New Mexico to form the Rio Grande, splitting Texas

and Mexico (who decided?) and moves deeper south. I think
a few of these thoughts by a creek on a beaming hot day,

as water rips by in rapids propelled, formed in mountains far above.
The water icy even in this summer heat. People grin

some false bravery. They sit in tubes and dip into the tide
and be carried away. I think of drowning. Of who sees water

as fun. Who gets to play in a heatwave. Who trusts
the flow. Migrants floating in the Rio Grande haunt me, so

I think of families tired of waiting, of mercy that never comes,
of taking back Destiny. The rivers must have claimed more

this year. Knows no metering but the rush of its mountain
source’s melt. A toddling child follows her father into water’s

pull. Think of gang’s demands, of where those come from. Trickles
of needs meeting form a flow of migrants. Think of where

it begins. Think of the current of history—long, windy, but
traceable and forceful in its early shapes.

This question of the first line, who decides when a river starts, makes me think about the origins of the mississippi and Lorine Niedecker’s discussion of Henry Schoolcraft’s naming of lake itasca in her poem “Lake Superior.” It also makes me think of Diane Setterfield’s discussion of rivers and springs and their origins in Once Upon a River.

I also like the lines:

Of who sees water

as fun. Who gets to play in a heatwave. Who trusts
the flow.

Not always, but often, when I’m swimming across lake nokomis in the summer, I think about the people who have drowned in this small, shallow lake. Water has always been something I love and trust and can move through easily. I try to remember how that’s not true for others.

oct 14/BIKERUN

indoor bike: 15 minutes
bike stand
treadmill run: 1 mile
outdoor run: 2 miles
34 degrees / icy drizzle

Woke up this morning before 6, opened the door to snow. What? Less than an inch, but all the trees were covered in white, the deck too. I had no idea. Oh well, I knew it would melt and that it wouldn’t be difficult to run in. A few hours later, having put on my early winter running attire — black running tights, black shorts, pink jacket with hood, black running vest, cap, headband, gloves — I opened the door to icy rain. Wtf? Again, I had no idea.

I will run in cold. I will run in snow. I will run in rain. I will not run in icy rain.

Decided to do a quick bike warm-up in the basement, then do a short run on the treadmill. Felt so good when I was done that I decided to believe that it wasn’t raining anymore. It was, but barely. Ran through the neighborhood, trying to avoid all the closed sidewalks and roads, and onto the river road trail at 32nd. Everything was dripping, but nothing was slippery. The main things I remember from the run are: puddles, the soft sounds of falling water — not sure how much of it was rain, and how much of it was just dripping trees, beeping trucks, and deep dark brown trunks.

As I write this entry, only minutes after I finished my run, the sun has come out and the sky is bright. I suppose if I had just been patient and waited a few more minutes, I could have avoided all the drips, but why would I have wanted to do that?

Something I learned this morning: I should do a 5-10 minute warm-up on the bike, or the treadmill, before I go out for a run, especially when it’s very cold outside. Why have I never thought of this before?

It’s October, so of course I’m thinking about ghosts. I also happen to be editing some poems about ghosts/haunts that I did last year. Here’s a poem I found yesterday:

Circle/Dana Knott

There are ghosts
and there are humans
in this house
ghosts who were once
humans, humans
who will become ghosts

The ghosts pace
from room to room
open cupboards
and tap tap messages
looking, looking

Ghosts and humans
live together apart
each a movement
a curtain, a drift
of snow, a whiteness
each his own fragment
trying to connect

to remember, to forget
lost loves, found keys
human obits in the process
of being written
ghostly obits in the process
of being read

oct 13/BIKE

indoor bike: 30 minutes
basement, bike stand
43 degrees

Decided to give my slippy and slide-y kneecap another day to recover from yesterday’s run. It seems fine, but I’m being extra cautious. I want to reach my 1000 miles again this year. I biked and watched an old 10,000 meter race — Worlds, Beijing, 2015. Why does 2015 seem so long ago?

Next week (hopefully), we’re re-joining the YWCA so I can swim this winter and Scott can run. Hooray for less basements, more pools and pool poems, and a new batch of regulars! Don’t worry, I’m still planning to run outside. Winter running is my favorite.

Yesterday, I discovered a new journal on twitter: Tiny Wren Lit. They publish very small poems — up to 15 lines, with a max of 25 characters (including spaces) per line. On the 15th, they’re open for submissions for an issue with the theme, Self-Portrait As. I’ve started working on reshaping a few of my poems to fit this theme. Very cool. In the process of thinking about this, I have (I hope!) come up with my fall project: a series of small poems playing with the themes of water and stone. I’ve been thinking about water and stone for a long time; they are 2 of the constants in my writing/moving/life. Sometimes I feel like water, sometimes stone. I’m excited!

And, here’s a beautiful poem I found, also on twitter:

Forest of Beginnings/ Mai Der Vang

Even the sky knows not
to make promises of water,
 
and the air knows not to dream
the onset of rain.
 
Even the animal
who forgets the touch
 
of a distant liquid cold
waits without knowing.
 
Earth is picking up her bones.
 
Earth is tucking in her babies.
 
          Sleep well, little loves,
                 sleep as you’ve never slept
 
       so you may wake
                    as you’ve never woke.
 
This is the earth that chants.
 
This is the earth that grows
teeth in the storm.
 
               This is the earth voicing
  each twig and leaf,
 
every stem
and stone.
 
This is the earth that opens like a room.
 
The ground sleeps through another
season of drought.
 
The land burrows further into exile,
sinking upward,
                        heaven to the ground,
 
where bodies of hemlock and pine,
cedar and fir,
 
no longer cast old roots but
tiptoe their arms
 
around shrubs and metal stakes.
 
Still, the land gives, the field grows,
and the harvest enters
          when it is called.
 
Flora of these hills and meadows
 
are all but springing their desires
under the rising moon.
 
               Leaves tended
by hands that tended leaves
from another mountain
 
on another shore
                        in another war.
 
War made by hands of another
for ownership of
 
                     the mountain before
leaving to new shores.
 
I did not know when I birthed you
that flight had been etched
on our tongues.
 
I did not know the jungle would
take us
far from our home,
 
                           bring us to California with
visions of new dirt and
 
the brightest green in our blood.

oct 12/RUN

5.5 miles
ford loop
51 degrees

A wonderful fall morning. Sunny, glowing trees, not much wind. I felt great during my run. Easy, relaxed. The problem: when I was done, and walking back, my right kneecap started to act up. Small slides and shifts, not wanting to stay in place. Now, I’m icing it. Bummer. I’m not sure why my knee is having problems.

Lately, it’s a challenge making it to the river. There are redoing so many sidewalks in the neighborhood that it’s hard to know which street to take over to the river road. Today, I zigzagged until I reached edmund, then down the hill until I reached 32nd, then over to the trail.

On the path, a squirrel was running ahead of me. They couldn’t decide which way to go — away from me, or right towards me. They darted away, then back, then away, then back. Fuck, I muttered under my breath.

Running at my favorite spot on the east side, just above the lake street bridge, I was running too close to the railing and didn’t see a pigeon (was it a pigeon?) stopped on a post. Normally birds will fly away before you reach them; this one, just barely in time. I exclaimed, geeze, and held up my hands to my face as its wings flapped furiously. As usual, I wondered how ridiculous I looked to a passing driver.

Recited my favorite section from May Swenson’s “October” — the whole thing this time:

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? A vision come
to outline? Yes, there—
deep in—a dark bird hangs
in the thicket, stretching a wing.
Reversing its perch, it says one
“chuck.” The patch
on his shoulder that
should be red looks gray.
This old redbird is planning to
stay, this year, not join in the
strenuous migration. Better here,
in the familiar, to fade.

another word repeated: still

I have loved the line, Stand still, stare hard, ever since I first read this poem a few years ago.

Ran past a big boulder with a plaque. I thought about stopping to read it, but I didn’t want to stop. One day, I’ll stop, I thought. But will I?

Thought about stopping to take off my orange sweatshirt. I didn’t. Thought about stopping to walk up the steep (but less steep now that they’ve rerouted it) sidewalk to ford bridge. I ran the entire 5.5 miles without stopping. Excellent.

Anything else? Running on the east side, past a ravine that’s not too far from the ford bridge, I had a memory of living in northern virginia when I was 10. Such beautiful falls! The leaves, the sun, the winding roads! A happy memory — not of one specific time, but the feeling of fall — crisp air, sun shining on orange leaves, trails to explore, fresh cider to drink. I don’t want to go back to that time, but I like feeling it again. Something about running on the east side of the river helps me to do that. Why the east side, but not the west? Not sure.

oct 10/RUN

6.05 miles
bottom of franklin hill and back
51 degrees

A beautiful morning, a good run. Now, minutes after it, I’m wiped out. Ran down the franklin hill, past annie young meadows, to the top of the south fourth st overlook. Stopped to admire the river: blue, with 2 rowers, one in a bright orange top (shirt? vest? jacket?). Started running again, walked up the franklin hill, then ran again, this time with a Taylor Swift playlist.

For the first few miles, I recited lines from May Swenson’s “October”:

As I recited it, I wondered about the repetition of now (now and then; now that limbs are bare) and into (see far into; the sun still spills into). Why does she repeat these words?

10 People I Encountered

Was mornied! by Mr. Morning! I had run past him — only seeing him from behind and not noticing it was him — and he called out. I turned back and called out good morning!
Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker.
Ran past Daddy Long Legs.
a woman walking briskly, wearing a turquoise fleece, talking with
another woman, together they approached me from behind as I walked up the franklin hill. Their voices hovered, growing louder as they neared
a runner dressed in black — first far behind me, then closer, then past me, then far ahead
a person sitting on a bench perched on the rim of the bluff
an older man and woman walking — I think I regularly encounter them? Can’t remember what the woman looks like, but the man is tall, thin, and white with white hair
a roller skier, roller skiing in the flats
a biker blasting music — I couldn’t hear it because I had my headphones in

word of the day: bombinate

I follow Merriam-Webster on twitter. Had to make note of today’s word of the day. “To bombinate is to make a sustained, murmuring sound similar to a buzz or drone.” I strongly dislike anything that bombinates. That low-lying, ever-present rumble that unsettles. I do like saying the word, though.

Taylor Swift’s “Red” came on near the end of my fifth mile. As I listened to the lyrics, I was struck by the chorus:

Losing him was blue, like I’d never known
Missing him was dark gray, all alone
Forgetting him was like trying to know
Somebody you never met
But loving him was red
Oh, red
Burning red

Perhaps this isn’t fair, but I kept thinking about how predictable and unimaginative her color descriptions are. And then I started thinking about synesthesia, which I don’t have, and wondering if people with it see emotions as colors, and what colors they might see. And now, after quickly researching the link between blue and gray and depression, I’m thinking about color psychology and feeling skeptical.

oct 8/RUN

4.25 miles
cleveland loop
44 degrees

Sunny and clear. Did I see any clouds in the sky? The only thing I remember seeing is a plane — just a small smudge of white — that I originally thought was the moon.

some winter layers: black running tights; black shorts; long-sleeved green base layer (REI, this shirt might be 9 or 10 years old, worn for almost every winter run); bright orange pull-over; baseball cap — twins, black with white polka dots; bright pink headband to cover my ears.

My second favorite Halloween house (Longfellow’s Lament will always be the best), the one that I thought would never happen again, is happening! A few days ago, Scott, Delia, and I walked by it — rats eating fake fingers, tombstones, a few disembodied heads, ghosts. Nice! This morning, running by it, I saw (and heard) someone in the yard setting up some creepy music. Yes!

10 Things I Noticed

2 rowing shells on the river
a woman on the bridge taking a picture of the view
crowded paths near St. Thomas
several bright red trees
the click click clack of a roller skier’s poles
red leaves on the sidewalk fading into pink
the smell of breakfast near Black Coffee — hash browns, toast, bacon, grease
the bells chiming — maybe it was 10? — at St. Thomas
the coxswain’s voice drifting up from below
waiting at Cretin (on Summit) for the light to change, when it did and I started running again, I heard the footsteps of another runner behind me. Would they pass me or fade away? They faded away

Read Glück’s “October” again before I went out for a run, and intended to think about these lines, but I forgot once I started moving:

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.

I wanted to think about how the morning song is over-rehearsed and how the light has changed. Then I wanted to think about the differences between autumn and spring light, which always seem similar to me, but not quite the same. Why not? Is it mostly what’s coming next — abundance or scarcity?

oct 7/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
43 degrees / mist

Even though I had been sitting at my desk in front of 2 big windows this morning, I hadn’t noticed that it was raining. Oh well, by the time I was ready to run the rain was mostly done. Just a fine mist and dripping trees. I guess I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t realized it was raining/had rained: my neighbor had their sprinkler on and was watering their lawn!

Yesterday I mentioned that I should try doing a warm-up inside before going out for my run. I did, and it worked! I could feel my muscles activating and no kneecap slips. Excellent!

A beautiful, muted morning. Quiet, cooler, soft. Even the glowing oranges and reds seemed softer, more subtle in their show. I felt really good — strong, relaxed, making an effort but not working too hard. Flying or floating or bouncing off the trail in a steady rhythm.

To test how hard I was working, I tried (and mostly succeeded in) reciting Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay” and Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Spring and Fall” out loud. In an easy run, you should be able to carry on a conversation without any problems, or in this case, be able to recite a poem without needing to take a breath every word. I stumbled over a few words, but that was my memory’s fault not my lungs’.

I think I saw Santa Claus at the beginning of my run. Good mornied! Mr. Morning! Heard the rowers down below and the geese up above. Glimpsed the river though the thinning leaves. Dodged some walkers. Squeaked on the wet leaves.

Thought about stopping at the halfway point and putting in my music; decided to keep listening to the gorge or my breathing or my thoughts.

Started reading Louise Glück’s Averno before my run. “October” is the second poem in the collection. I’m thinking about reading the entire collection. Should I?

Averno = a small crater lake in Italy, regarded by the ancient Romans as the entrance to the underworld.

Here’s the first poem of the collection:

The Night Migrations/ Louise Glück

This is the moment when you see again
the red berries of the mountain ash
and in the dark sky
the birds’ night migrations.

It grieves me to think
the dead won’t see them—
these things we depend on,
they disappear.

What will the soul do for solace then?
I tell myself maybe it won’t need
these pleasures anymore;
maybe just not being is simply enough,
hard as that is to imagine.

This poem makes me think of one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems, “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark”:

We grow accustomed to the Dark –/ Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark –
When light is put away –
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye –

A Moment – We uncertain step
For newness of the night –
Then – fit our Vision to the Dark –
And meet the Road – erect –

And so of larger – Darkness –
Those Evenings of the Brain –
When not a Moon disclose a sign –
Or Star – come out – within –

The Bravest – grope a little –
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead –
But as they learn to see –

Either the Darkness alters –
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight –
And Life steps almost straight.

There are many different ways I think of these poems together, but right now, I’m thinking about Glück’s first line, This the moment when you see again, as the moment in ED’s poem when we fit our vision to the Dark and Life steps almost straight. This moment, for Glück, is the moment after a great loss and after you have been changed by it. This idea of being changed/altered comes up several times in “October,” especially in 4:

The light has changed.

The songs have changed.

So much has changed.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

oct 6/RUN

6.1 miles
minnehaha dog park and back*
53 degrees

*a new route: south on the river road trail, past the falls and John Stevens’ house, along the gorge with hidden falls on the other side until turning around just before the dog park

Cooler weather. A bit blustery. Most of the time, the wind was pushing me and the leaves. Every so often I chanted, I am the wind and the wind is invisible, all the leaves tremble but I am invisible (Richard Siken) and Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: but when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: but when the trees bow down their heads, the wind is passing by (Christina Rossetti).

Felt strong and relaxed. My right kneecap did some tiny slips. I decided that I should start warming up more before I head out for a run. Hopefully this will help my knee stay in the groove? Also: worked on my posture, trying to keep my trunk tall and my head straight.

A rare occasion: Nearing the park building at the falls, I realized I needed to go the bathroom, so I stopped. Hooray for a real bathroom, and not just a port-a-potty or a bush!

10+ Things I Noticed

the leaves on the edge of the gorge, down near the ground, look a bright glowing orange instead of their usual red. Not sure if that’s true, or just my bad vision
a view is coming! the trees are thinning in a stretch somewhere between 38th and 42nd and I could see the blue of the river below
between the double-bridge and the locks and dam no. 1: a row of bushes, still thick with leaves, blocking my view of the river. The light flashing through the small gaps disorients
seeing these flashes, wondering if I should tilt my hat to shield my eyes, a peleton passes by on the road
at the falls, several of the sidewalks are covered in fallen leaves
the trail is peppered with bright reds, yellows, oranges
many of the trees at the falls have changed from green to gold and red, but a cluster (a stand?) of 4 or 5 are still green
running above the gorge, parallel to Hiawatha, sirens — what happened and where?
a bright red tree, glowing with color, way over in the neighborhood on the other side of Hiawatha
the sandy beach at Hidden Falls almost glowing white through the trees
the falls, dry — not a drop of creek water falling down the limestone
someone blasting music (rock? pop?) from their car on Hiawatha. So loud!
bing bing the fake bells of the train ringing as it pulls out of the 50th street station

The Secret in the Mirror/ Alberto Ríos

The mirror is dirty from the detritus of dailiness—
I look in the mirror and am freckled.

A week out from being cleaned, maybe two, maybe more,
The Milky Way shows itself in the secret silver,

This star chart in my own bathroom,
Aglow not in darkness but with the lights on,

Everything suddenly so clear.
It is not smear I am looking at, but galaxies.

It is not toothpaste and water spots—
When I look in the mirror, it is writing and numbers,

Musical notes, 1s and 0s, Morse-like codes, runes.
I am looking over into the other side,

And over there, whoever they are, it turns out
They look a lot like me. Like me, but freckled.

I really appreciate Ríos’ description in “About this Poem”:

…this poem speaks to the everyday lives we also lead—not cleaning the bathroom sink quite as much as we perhaps should, not always controlling the floss strings of good intentions now turned wild, not vacuuming nearly enough. But even in the mundane, we have, always at hand, surprise, surprise at its most savory in that we have least expected to find it where it is not advertised.

Surprise. Yes! I’m struck by how my failing vision creates a lot of surprise as my brain attempts to guess what I’m looking at. My vision aside, I also like the idea of finding the magical in the moments when the mundane fails, like when we fail to clean our bathroom mirror.

oct 4/RUN

2.5 miles
2 trails
60 degrees

Another colorful fall morning. Noisy, too. So much construction on our block and around the neighborhood. beep beep beep beep brrrrrr brrrrrr. Ran south on the river road and encountered lots of bikes. Noticed how the river was burning a bright white. Got lost in some thoughts about a new form for my vision poems. Forgot to notice the bridge above the ravine in the stretch between 44th and 42nd on the winchell trail. Stopped near the top of the hill at 42nd to speak some ideas into my phone. Ran some more, then stopped again. Do I have some good ideas that can become something? I hope so. I’m interested in experimenting with the peripheral as where I see and the center as a flat landscape/background. Maybe have a flat, lifeless description of the landscape with flashes of more meaningful words sprinkled along the peripheral? I like the idea of making the center a flat, lifeless landscape/background because that’s what my brain does; it fills in a background, like wallpaper. It’s mostly what’s there, but my view doesn’t include any objects that my few cones or my peripheral rods didn’t register. Listening to my notes, I also mention being inspired by the vision tests at the DMV, which have both a mini snellen chart and flashes you have to notice. For years before I was diagnosed, I would have this seemingly irrational fear of the vision test at the DMV. I always wondered why. Now I know. Not sure how to translate these tests into a poetic form.

10 Things I Noticed*

*while not really paying attention to my surroundings

a peleton of younger bikers on the road
a string of older bikers on the trail
a biker swinging wide to mount their bike just as I ran by
a dog barking at me as I swung wide to avoid them and their owner
bright yellow vests
a tree leaning over the dirt trail, which used to be asphalt, just past the 38th street steps
two voices behind me, getting closer when I stopped to speak into my phone
a woman with a dog passing by me X 2
dripping water at the 42nd street sewer pipe
Santa Claus running fast!

I noticed more than I thought. I haven’t seen Santa Claus (the Regular runner who has a bushy white beard like Santa Claus) in a while.

Here’s a poem I discovered yesterday while previewing May Swenson’s Nature (which I ordered!). It fits with my theme for September, and how I’m feeling these days: tender.

Living Tenderly/ May Swenson

My body a rounded stone
with a pattern of smooth seams.
My head a short snake,
retractive, projective.
My legs out out of their sleeves
or shrink within,
and so does my chin.
My eyelids are quick clamps.

My back is my roof.
I am always at home.
I travel where my house walks.
It is a smooth stone.
It floats within the lake,
or rests in the dust.
My flesh lives tenderly
inside its bone.

oct 3/RUN

5.4 miles
ford loop
61 degrees

Full fall color! More orange than anything else. Beautiful. Running over the lake street bridge — river emptied of everything but ripples. Windy. Noticed the evidence of the marathon everywhere — port-a-potties and barricades waiting to be picked up. No trash or torn-up grass or anything else that might indicate lots of people gathered here. I’m always impressed with how quickly everything is picked up. Encountered an older woman on the lake street steps. Tried to think about May Swenson’s wonderful poem, “October,” but all my thoughts scattered. Felt good. My right knee (the OG), didn’t bother me until the very end, and barely. No shifting or rubbing kneecap today!

No headphones for the first 4.5 miles. Put in Bruno Mars playlist — “talking to the moon” — while I finished my run.

10 Things I Noticed

Orange everywhere! Not the kind that’s almost red, but the soft neon, almost like orange sherbet
No rowers on the river, no roller skiers on the path, one fast-moving rollerblader
A single goose honking, somewhere in the sky
mostly cloudy with the sun sometimes peeking through the clouds
long shadows cast by the trees on the east river side, near the overlook closest to the ford bridge
a stretch on the east side of the river with no trees — no shade, nothing to frame the wide open sky, strangely bare
the sound of jack hammers
2 bikers at the top of Summit, just past the monument. One said to the other, “This is the only tricky (or did he tough?) part of the route”
a bike darted past me on the ford bridge then turned into a small overlook. No! I wanted to stop there to admire the leaves! Then, before I reached the overlook, hopped on their bike and pedaled away. Hooray!
the short path that you cut down after exiting the ford bridge to get to the river road was the ideal form of Fall — all oranges, a few yellows, a winding path, mysterious woods

A few weeks ago, I decided that in October I would study 2 poems titled October, one my May Swenson, the other by Louise Glück. This week, May Swenson’s version:

October/ May Swenson

1

A smudge for the horizon
that, on a clear day, shows
the hard edge of hills and
buildings on the other coast.
Anchored boats all head one way:
north, where the wind comes from.
You can see the storm inflating
out of the west. A dark hole
in gray cloud twirls, widens,
while white rips multiply
on the water far out.
Wet tousled yellow leaves,
thick on the slate terrace.
The jay’s hoarse cry. He’s
stumbling in the air,
too soaked to fly.

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.

3

Peeling a pear, I remember
my daddy’s hand. His thumb
(the one that got nipped by the saw,
lacked a nail) fit into
the cored hollow of the slippery
half his knife skinned so neatly.
Dad would pare the fruit from our
orchard in the fall, while Mother
boiled the jars, prepared for
“putting up.” Dad used to darn
our socks when we were small,
and cut our hair and toenails.
Sunday mornings, in pajamas, we’d
take turns in his lap. He’d help
bathe us sometimes. Dad could do
anything. He built our dining table,
chairs, the buffet, the bay window
seat, my little desk of cherry wood
where I wrote my first poems. That
day at the shop, splitting panel
boards on the electric saw (oh, I
can hear the screech of it now,
the whirling blade that sliced
my daddy’s thumb), he received the mar
that, long after, in his coffin,
distinguished his skilled hand.

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.

5

Dark wild honey, the lion’s
eye color, you brought home
from a country store.
Tastes of the work of shaggy
bees on strong weeds,
their midsummer bloom.
My brain’s electric circuit
glows, like the lion’s iris
that, concentrated, vibrates
while seeming not to move.
Thick transparent amber
you brought home,
the sweet that burns.

6

“The very hairs of your head
are numbered,” said the words
in my head, as the haircutter
snipped and cut, my round head
a newel poked out of the tent
top’s slippery sheet, while my
hairs’ straight rays rained
down, making pattern on the neat
vacant cosmos of my lap. And
maybe it was those tiny flies,
phantoms of my aging eyes, seen
out of the sides floating (that,
when you turn to find them
full face, always dissolve) but
I saw, I think, minuscule,
marked in clearest ink, Hairs
#9001 and #9002 fall, the cut-off
ends streaking little comets,
till they tumbled to confuse
with all the others in their
fizzled heaps, in canyons of my
lap. And what keeps asking
in my head now that, brushed off
and finished, I’m walking
in the street, is how can those
numbers remain all the way through,
and all along the length of every
hair, and even before each one
is grown, apparently, through
my scalp? For, if the hairs of my
head are numbered, it means
no more and no less of them
have ever, or will ever be.
In my head, now cool and light,
thoughts, phantom white flies,
take a fling: This discovery
can apply to everything.

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.

After posting this, I decided to order Swenson’s collection Nature (and Glück’s Averno). So excited!

Back to Swenson. Today, before I went out for my run, I was struck by 4, 5, and 6, especially in terms of light, the eye, and vision.

from 4
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.

I like her description of light, the eye, and the brain, which is warmed with wires of color.

In the next section, 6, I’m struck by how, after praising light, she (seems to) praise darkness too:

Dark wild honey, the lion’s
eye color, you brought home
from a country store.

And offers a parallel description of dark, the eye, and the brain:

My brain’s electric circuit
glows, like the lion’s iris
that, concentrated, vibrates
while seeming not to move.

The eyes and light and vision come up again in section 6:

maybe it was those tiny flies,
phantoms of my aging eyes, seen
out of the sides floating (that,
when you turn to find them
full face, always dissolve)

then

In my head, now cool and light,
thoughts, phantom white flies,
take a fling

What to make of these references?

oct 1/RUN

5.25 miles
prior loop*
57 degrees

*an extended version of the Marshall loop. Over the lake street bridge, past Cretin and Cleveland to right on Prior Street, then right on Summit to the river. note: in an earlier version of this description, I read the street sign incorrectly. I thought it was St. Peter instead of Prior.

Wow! Fall colors! Reds, oranges, yellows. Felt cooler than 57, damp. Sometimes cloudy, sometimes sunny, always calm with hardly a breeze. Running over the lake street bridge, I witnessed a rowing event — a practice? a race? I’m not sure what it was, but they had buoys lined up and the river was dotted with rowing shells, from small (1 person) to big (8 person). What a beautiful image. As I ran past, I kept turning my neck to take more of it in. 30 or 40 minutes later, when I crossed back over the bridge, they were still there. This time, I heard the voice of a male coxswain too.

knee update: my right knee, the one that’s prone to subluxations is grumbling a bit. For the past 2 runs, around 5 minutes in, I can feel the kneecap rubbing — is it coming out of the groove slightly? After another 5 minutes, it settles. The rest of the run is fine, but when I’m done that knee is slightly swollen.

Image of the Day

Running past my favorite spot on the east river trail, the trees parted and the river was revealed, glowing from the sun and the yellow, orange, and red trees on the opposite shore. The water was blue and covered in boats and buoys.

10 Things I Remember

the smell of cigar smoke as I neared the bottom of the marshall hill
a group of 5 or 6 spectators on the bridge watching the rowers below
stopped at the light at cretin, waiting for it to turn green again, shifting my weight from foot to foot
running by where choo choo bob’s used to be, and where FWA had his 3rd birthday party, and wondering if it was still there (looked it up, it’s not)
2 big stone lions guarding the front of the big house on summit
the sound of a siren, 2 women waiting on a corner, one of them complaining, this took forever, then hearing her say, you guys took over 40 minutes! I didn’t see an injured person or any sign of something wrong. What happened? Who was hurt? Where would the women lead them?
screeching blue jays
near the top of the hill, close to the entrance to the shadow falls trail, a speedy bike whipped around the corner
a walker ahead of me swinging her arms widely from side to side
hearing the rowers through the trees as I ran above the river on the west side

leaf watch, 2022

Gorgeous. Getting close to peak, I think. Tomorrow’s marathon will be beautiful.

EDNA/ Todd Dillard

My daughter is bored so I tell her silverfish
are neither silver nor a fish, but a spoon-dull insect
that loves kitchens bathrooms the mouths of children.
Silverfish! Silverfish! she squeals, the word
peeling from her lips and crawling down her legs.
She watches me knead the day’s dough
and asks if Kleenex are used to clean necks.
The TV says a crane collapsed off 34th and
she wants to know if it’s because the crane was thirsty.
Some afternoons we visit the neighborhood pool and
even though she can barely swim my daughter isn’t afraid.
She’s so unafraid it makes me afraid. She loves it
when I pick her up and throw her as far away as possible.
She loves to paddle back and scream Again! Again!
But she loves it most when I swim away as fast as I can,
when my back becomes a shore she’s trying to reach.
My daughter’s named the pool Edna. Sometimes
Edna helps her reach me. When it’s time to go
my daughter says “See you soon, Edna.”
Every day I am terrified in new ways.

I love this poem and how Dillard captures the spirit of his young daughter. I love the line about his back being a shore she’s trying to reach. And I love that the pool is named Edna. What a great name for a body of water!

sept 30/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
57 degrees

Today is the 13th anniversary of my mom’s death. Last night, my second mom (always more than a mother-in-law) died. Cancer killed both of them too soon. Here’s how I’d like to remember them, together, laughing:

A beautiful fall morning. Lots of yellows and reds and even some orange. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker with a hi! instead of a good morning Dave! Thought about my right knee and hoped it would be okay — I took an extra day off because it was a little sore/swollen. It seems okay. Whew! Did I think much about grief? Not sure. I heard some strange birds, or were they cranking squirrels? I couldn’t tell. Don’t think I looked at the river even once. Didn’t hear any rowers or roller skiers. No fat tires. No walnuts or acorns or epiphanies. Just a nice 30 minute release from sadness and fatigue and worry about having to tell RJP when she comes home this afternoon.

sept 27/RUN

5.5 miles
ford loop
48 degrees

Today, it feels like fall. Wore my running tights under my shorts.

My right knee is a bit sore. It didn’t hurt while I was running, just after, when I was walking. Now, as I write this, I’m icing it.

Windy. Hissing trees. Running across the ford bridge, the wind was blowing off of the river, making my ponytail and pink jacket flap furiously. The water had strange streaks on it — how was the wind making that happen?

Noticed some crows and lots of construction everywhere. They’re redoing all the sidewalks in the neighborhood. Heard some woodpeckers, drumming on trees. Heard a jackhammer across the river and thought about how it sounded like the woodpeckers. Greeted Mr. Walker and Mr. Morning! Overheard some women say something about listening to a podcast.

leaf watch, 2022

A few bright red trees, some yellow. Still well below peak.

Anything else? Heard the St. Thomas bells chime 10 times. Noticed my shadow above shadow falls. Enjoyed the sensation of running over the dirt — the shshsh sound and the soft slide of my feet as the lifted off the gritty ground.

Here are two poems I recently found on twitter, one about love, the other beauty:

I’ve Been Thinking about Love Again/ Vievee Francis

Those who live to have it and
those who live to give it.

Of course there are those for whom both are true,
but never in the same measure.

Those who have it to give are
like cardinals in the snow. So easy
and beautifully lit. Some
are rabbits. Hard to see
except for those who would prey upon them:
all that softness and quaking and blood.

Those who want it
cannot be satisfied. Eagle-eyed and such talons,
any furred thing will do. So easy
to rip out a heart when it is throbbing so hard.

I wander out into the winter.
I know what I am.

A page from Frank: Sonnets/ Diane Seuss

Sometimes I can’t feel it, what some call

beauty. I can see it, I swear, the conifers

and fat bees, ferns like church fans and then

the sea, its flatness as if pressed by stones

like witches were, the dark sand ridged

by tides, strewn with body parts, claws,

the stranded mesoglea of the moon jellyfish,

transparent blob, brainless, enlightened in its clarity.

I stand there, I walk the shore at low tide, the sky

fearless, not open to me, just open, there it is,

the wind, cold, surf’s boom drowning out

thought, I can photograph it, I can name it

beautiful, but feel it, I don’t know that I am

feeling it, when I drown in it, maybe then.

note: more info on mesoglea and the moon jellyfish

sept 25/RUN

3.1 miles
turkey hollow
57 degrees

Another beautiful fall morning. Listened to Bruno Mars and didn’t think about anything, or didn’t hold onto anything that I thought about. Didn’t see any turkeys or greet anyone. No view of the river — well, I think I might have seen it shimmering through the trees at one point, but it was far off, on the other side of the river road, so I can’t be sure. Forgot to notice the color of the trees or look for acorns or walnuts or squirrels.

Found this Niedecker poem on twitter the other day. I love her poetry.

Along the River/ Lorine Niedecker

Along the river
        wild sunflowers
over my head
        the dead
who gave me life
        give me this
our relative the air
        floods
our rich friend
        silt

Trying to find out more about this poem, I discovered that it was turned to a song (at least I think this is the same poem; it’s difficult to understand the lyrics):

sept 24/RUN

4.4 miles
st. thomas loop*
57 degrees / humidity: 88%

*a new loop! 43rd ave, north/31st st, east/46th ave, north/lake street, east/lake street bridge/up marshall hill/cleveland, south/summit ave, west/east river road, south/lake street bridge/west river road, south/stop at ancient boulder

A grayish-white, or white-ish gray?, morning. Cool, not crisp but damp. Lots of leaves on the ground. Lots of gold in the trees — more gold than red or orange. No rowers on the river, but at least one or two roller skiers on the path. I felt good.

Recited Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Spring and Fall” and Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay” as I ran. I struggle with the rhythm in Hopkins’ third and fourth lines:

Leaves, the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

I don’t remember anything else I thought about. What did I think about? I’m happy to lose some thoughts and some time.

A quote from the wonderful Pádraig Ó Tuama about poetry:

A little block of letters in the middle of a blank page can open up windows into your world, and offer help, insight, company, spaciousness, reflection, and solidarity. In solitude we can appreciate a deeper solitude. In need we can approach company.” —Pádraig Ó Tuama
@duanalla

And, some more regular questions to ask ourselves that I want to add to my undisciplined site:

What are we pretending not to know today?” —Toni Cade Bambara What are we pretending not to see? What have we pretended not to see for a long, long time?
Deborah E. McDowell

sept 22/RUN

3.1 miles
2 trails
55 degrees

Fall leaves fall! More color, more leaves on the ground, more cool air. Ran south on the river road trail to the southern start of the Winchell Trail. Was almost hit by at least 2 bicycles — bikers biking on the walking path. Didn’t yell, but cried out, Watch out! to one person and exclaimed, Jesus! or Christ! or Jeez! beside another.

Didn’t see any squirrels or almost trip over any acorns. No clicks or clacks from roller skiers’ poles. No fat tires or honking geese. No territorial turkeys — I love how htis sounds! I want to write something that uses this phrase! No rowers or chapel bells. Not a single good morning.

I did hear some kids playing at a school playground. And jackhammers across the road. A weedwacker trimming the hillside. 2 guys talking — I tried to hang onto what the one guy said, but now I can’t remember.

As I was walking back after my run, I tried to recite Hopkin’s “Spring and Fall” and Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” I missed a few lines; time to memorize them again!

I think I found this pithy poem on twitter this morning:

Fall/ Ed Ochester

Crows, crows, crows, crows
then the slow flapaway over the hill
and the dead oak is naked

I don’t remember hearing any crows before/during/after my run today.

sept 21/RUN

5.75 miles
franklin loop
60 degrees

A beautiful morning for a run! Cooler, leaves scattered on the ground, more reds and oranges and yellows. Started slow and intended on staying slow, but looking at my splits after the run, I noticed I negative split each mile. Ran the franklin loop — north on franklin, over the bridge, south on the east river road, past the lake street bridge, up the hill beside my favorite viewing spot, then back down the hill to the bridge. I walked up the steps and on the bridge until I reached the overlook. Stopped to study the river, then put in Renaissance and ran all the way back.

To keep myself distracted, or focused on something other than my effort, I chanted triple berries. Strawberry/raspberry/blueberry/blackberry/gooseberry

Also thought about a poem I’m revising and the idea of learning to hold contradictions together without resolving or reducing them. In the case of this poem, it’s about both having great affection for the other swimmers in the lake with me because we all love the lake and being irritated by how they get in my way or kick me or push me off course. I can’t remember much of what I thought — something about other contradictions, lik how we always hold joy and suffering together too, and about the need to find balance with these contradictions.

10 Things I Noticed

the welcoming oaks are still green and full
a few rips in the veil of green that hides the river below the tunnel of trees
minneapolis parks worker was weedwacking near the lake street bridge. all the goldenrod poking through the rails and leaning over the trail is gone, so are the red leaves
gusts and swells of wind, sounding like water falling from the limestone ledges
evidence: the voice of a kid, then an adult and an empty bike with a kids’ seat in the back parked in the bike rack…assumption: there’s a kid somewhere nearby with his mom exploring the gorge, never verified
passing a man with a “sporty” walker (its wheels looked like they were more rugged and ready to go fast) just before getting to the franklin bridge
greeted Dave, the Daily Walker and Mr. Morning! Also passed a guy that I’m pretty sure used to walk on the track at the YWCA everytime I ran there. I think I’ll call him, Mr. Y
water (not wind, I think?) falling off the ledge near the Meeker Dog Park — is there a way to get to this seep/falls?
a bright red tree just below the railing at my favorite viewing spot above the lake street bridge
the river! blue with slight ripples from the wind that were moving towards the middle of the river, streaks — from the sandbars? — were visible too. At the overlook, a little over halfway across, the river was split in 2. One side was sparkling and shimmering from the sun, the other side was almost flat. Up above, the sky was streaked with shreds of clouds; it looked almost like a mirror of the ripples in the water

Autumn/ Linda Pastan

I want to mention
summer ending
without meaning the death
of somebody loved

or even the death
of the trees.
Today in the market
I heard a mother say

Look at the pumpkins,
it’s finally autumn!
And the child didn’t think
of the death of her mother

which is due before her own
but tasted the sound
of the words on her clumsy tongue:
pumpkin; autumn.

Let the eye enlarge
with all it beholds.
I want to celebrate
color, how one red leaf

flickers like a match
held to a dry branch,
and the whole world goes up
in orange and gold.

Ever since I read Vertical by Linda Pastan, I have loved her poetry. This poem — “Autumn” — adds to that love. Some years, like this one, it’s harder not to think about death in the fall. Maybe I’ll try repeating pumpkin and autumn over and over.

addendum (17 feb 2023): For the month of Feb 2023, I’m spending time with Linda Pastan. While watching one of her readings on YouTube, she mentioned that this poem was for Jane Kenyon and in response to Kenyon’s poem, Let Evening Come:

Let Evening Come/ Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

sept 20/RUNswim*

*Yesterday afternoon, RJP, Scott and I drove by Lake Nokomis and noticed the buoys were still up. Since it was going to be warm today, I decided I’d swim one last time this morning. Arrived at the beach at 9:30 am. No buoys. This is not the first time this has happened. Oh well. I ran instead and then waded into the water at the end to cool down. I don’t like big goodbyes with grand gestures, so I was fine with not being able to make this the final swim. I like ending things when there’s still the possibility that it could keep going. When open swim ended, I could think, I can bike over to the lake and do a few loops until they take down the buoys. By the time it’s actually over, I’ve already been acting as if it’s over for a while.

2.5 miles
around lake nokomis
75 degrees

I haven’t run around the lake for many months. I can’t even remember the last time I did it. It was very hot, but nice. I like how they’ve been working on restoring the wetlands and the shoreline. More wildflowers. Running over the cedar bridge, I looked across the beautiful water. Ah, Lake Nokomis, I’ll miss you this winter!

10 Things I Noticed

some very noisy crows
a honking/moaning goose on the other shore — I think it was in the water and not up in the air
a plane roaring over my head as I ran across the cedar bridge
no buoys at the little beach, workers re-tarring spots on the bike trail
2 older men sitting and chatting at a picnic table near the bike racks just before the little beach
an empty dock
lots of people walking with dogs
more walkers than runners
after my run, wading in the water, just past my knees — brr! the water was cold
seagulls strutting around on the sand

Glaucoma/ Charlene Fix

What my eyes see reminds me of under-exposed
negatives from my bygone wet photography days,
days replete with eyes—the camera’s, the enlarger’s, mine—
when I failed to admit sufficient light to the film,
resulting in negatives so thin that, held aslant,
they looked like printed pictures. Thin, yet yielding
tender images, the sweet round faces of children
rising and blooming in the developer tray as if

pulled from the photo paper’s fertile heart as it sloshed and sang
for an allotted time in nether clouds of liquid vapor,
images startling with the beauty of their truths.
Then into the final tray, a bath transforming love
and sight to artifact, though faint the accretion,
fragile memory made lasting with the help of chemical tears.

This is not what my eyes see but I appreciate the description. I’d like to return to this poem and think about how my experience differs.

After the run, while doing the dishes, I listened to an Ali on the Run podcast episode with Deena Kastor. Here’s a bit of it that I’d like to remember:

Ali: How do you keep going when a race isn’t going your way?

Deena: I think we always have the opportunity to talk ourselves out of something, or talk ourselves into something. And I feel, time and time again, how I am so suprised at how, when I talk myself into something, how it can get the job done. You can rely on excuses and feel okay with those excuses, but when you shove those excuses aside and you just convince yourself that one more step is the right thing to do, it’s amazing how we can accomplish something.

I am good at talking myself out of things and having excuses/rational and reasonable explanations for why I’m not doing something. Sometimes this is okay, but…I’m finding myself saying no too often. I wouldn’t call it giving up, instead, I think of it as a narrowing of my world/options, a shutting of doors and foreclosing of possibilities. Lately, I’ve given myself a goal: keep the door open. Don’t do things/make choices that close the door. It reminds me of a line from Ron Padgett’s great poem “How to Be Perfect“:

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don’t do
anything to make it impossible.

addendum, a few hours later: Reading through swimming entries from this summer, I came across this Ron Padgett line on August 5th. I was talking about the lyrics from the Mary Poppins’ song, “Anything Can Happen.”

sept 19/RUN

4.6 miles
to longfellow gardes and the falls
60 degrees / humidity: 90%

A nice run. Calm, quiet, not too warm. I was surprised to see that the humidity was 90%; it didn’t feel that humid. Ran south on the river road trail, past the falls, under to mustache bridge, near the old statue of Longfellow (is it Longfellow, or someone else? I can’t remember now) and over to Longfellow Gardens. Beautiful fall flowers. My favorites: purple cylinder-shaped ones and some bright pink ones that almost looked like zinnias but not quite. I stopped to walk through the flowers and noticed about a dozen people with cameras — a class? a photography group?

The falls were almost completely dry. Running on the path above then, close to the road, I heard a voice call out, echo! echo! Maybe someone walked on the dry creek to under the bridge?

Running south: no headphones
Running after the falls: playlist, Bruno Mars

10 Things I Noticed

no water in the creek, just rocks
clear, cloudless, bright blue sky
the faint outline of the moon
the dribble dribble sound of water trickling down the limestone in the park
the recently re-paved (2 or 3 years ago?) path below the mustache bridge is already puckering in places — what causes that?
a woman speaking to another woman while walking near the falls, It’s beautiful! She’s lucky to live here.
more slashes of red and orange, no slashes of yellow — yellow comes in splotches, not slashes, I think
the smallest sliver of sparkling river through the trees
all the benches were empty
lots of construction sounds on edmund, near Dowling Elementary — jack hammers, rumbling bobcats

Here’s a poem I found on twitter this morning. I’d like to read more of Swenson’s work.

The River/ Cole Swenson

It is a rare night
down along the river,
a sheet of glass repeating
“I am water.”
The lights upon it
do not dance, but strike
and go down forever.
This river has forgotten
the way to the sea,
it will wander the earth
like a liquid sleepwalker
stopping people on the street
and asking, “have I arrived?”

sept 18/RUN

4.6 miles
franklin bridge and back
64 degrees / humidity: 87%

note: as I write this entry, at my desk in the front, a fly keeps dive-bombing me. I think it might be the same fly that harassed me early this morning while I was drinking my coffee. Argh!

Dark this morning. Looked like it might rain; it didn’t. This sort of light makes everything look even darker and dreamier to me. Ran north on the river road trail to just under the Franklin Bridge. Stopped to walk back up the half of franklin hill that was left. Put in Renaissance and ran south. The trail was crowded, but not too irritating. Saw evidence of rowers — walking up from the rowing club — but no voices down below or shells in the water. Encountered a few roller skiers. I don’t think I heard their poles clacking at all. Heard some shrieking blue jays. No geese. No big running groups. No Dave, the Daily Walker or Mr. Morning. I did cross paths with Daddy Long Legs,

leaf watch, fall 2022

Some golden trees between franklin and seabury — I think Scott’s favorite tree might have turned yellow. More slashes of red and orange. Things are speeding up now. Full color by the beginning of October?

image of the day

I think I’ve mentioned this image sometime in the past — heading up the second half of the franklin hill, the stretch after the bridge but before the top, the trees on either side frame the sky in such a way that it looks like the shape of the Mississippi River. Very cool to see and to imagine everything upside down, with the sky as river, the ground as sky.

The fly continues to bother me. Bzzzzzz….bzz..bzz..bzzzzzzzzzz

Speaking of a fly, it’s hard to believe that I haven’t posted this ED poem before — update, 9 jan 2023: I did post it already. On march 15, 2021.

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died / Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –

With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –

With a loved one nearing death and the 13th anniversary of my beloved mom’s death at the end of the month and falling leaves and winter coming, I’m thinking about transformation and decay and things passing away. Speaking of decay, I saw a tweet a few days ago about IDK and how it both stands for I Don’t Know and I Decay.

sept 17/RUN

3.5 miles
marshall loop to cleveland*
67 degrees / humidity: 84%

*Ran up Marshall and kept going past Cretin to Cleveland. Ran south on Cleveland to Summit, then west to the river road. I met up with Scott at the bridge and walked the rest of the way. If I had kept running, the loop would have been over 5 miles — also, I ran to the lake st bridge through the neighborhood. If I had taken the river road trail from the beginning, it might have added a little more distance.

Ran after it rained. Lots of dripping. Humid. I’m pretty sure I have only run up to Cleveland one other time. I liked it. You run right next to the St. Thomas campus, which is beautiful.

10 Things I Noticed

ran by Bethleham Lutheran and saw a sign for their 100th anniversary — all are welcome!
the sidewalk on 46th near lake street is dug up. I had to run in the street for a block
running past a house, hearing one sharp bark
rowers on the river! one shell, 8 rowers, 2 of them in bright green shirts
a small, bright orange tree
passed 2 women on summit and said, good morning! they replied, morning!
encountered a runner at the bottom of the hill, past shadow falls — she called out, morning, I replied, good morning!
a steady stream of runners climbing the hill near the Monument
the clock at St. Thomas chiming as I neared the bridge — 9:45, maybe?
a car passing by, making some noise — was it the rumbling of their wheels crunching some acorns, or music from their radio? I couldn’t tell

leaf watch, fall 2022

Starting to see more color. A few orange trees, some slashes of red, a yellow glow.

Reading the draft of my new poem to Scott last night, he commented on how I pronounce the word hull: whole. It’s your semi-southern accent, he said. And then, you should put that in a poem. Yes, I do have a semi-southern accent, having lived for 5 years in North Carolina, ages 4-9, and southern Virginia, age 10. And I think I know which poem to put it in. It’s called “A Bridge of Saras” and it imagines over 40 different Saras, at different ages, all swimming in the lake together.

sept 16/RUN

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
66 degrees / drizzle

Checked the weather app on my watch: 0% chance of rain. Ha! A few minutes in, a few drops, then a soft, steady drizzle for the rest of the run. Who cares? I barely felt it, or could barely tell the difference between drops of rain and drops of sweat.

Ran to the falls. No roar or rush, just a trickle. I doubt this short rain will help.

Stopped to look at the falls at my favorite spot, near the former fountain where Longellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha” is etched into the stone wall. The falls were hidden behind green. Instead, I noticed a few dartig birds. I think they were blue — blue is a very difficult color for me to see.

Started running again while listening to Renaissance.

quick life update for future Sara to remember: with very little warning, trying to figure out nursing homes and finances for elderly parents. A kid who is struggling with anxiety and depression and high school (which are connected but not necessarily in a causal way) — not wanting to go to school, but also not wanting to miss out.

sept 14/RUN

5.6 miles
the flats and back
62 degrees / humidity: 80%

Fall running. Still wearing my summer attire — shorts and a tank top — but it felt cooler, easier. I ran 3 miles, all the way down the franklin hill and into the flats, then turned around at the steps. Ran below, right by the river, on the uneven path until I reached 3.3 miles. Walked up about half of the hill. Put in Beyoncé’s Renaissance and ran most of the way back.

Fairly early into the run, I realized that my eyes were drawn to things in the bottom of my periphery. All things on the ground: changing leaves, bright blue tarps, wildflowers.

10 Things I Noticed

a green glow
slashes of red near my feet
the strong smell of urine at a spot somewhere between the franklin and lake st bridges
a big white tarp next the trash can near the WPA sign and the lake street bridge
more goldenrod
a lone goose up in the sky, honking
an old car, puttering behind me, sounding like a rickity bike. I thought it was a bike, until it passed me
Mr. Unicycle! As I neared the franklin hill, I saw him powering up the hill on his one-wheeled bike
a runner ahead of me, running on the white line that divides the bike and walking paths. 2 fast bikers, speeding down the hill, swerving wide to avoid him
4 or 5 stones stacked on the ancient boulder. The top one bigger than the rest — nice balance!

a big boulder with several small stones stacked on it. The top stone, much bigger than the one just beneath it. — 5, or is just 4?, stones stacked on the ancient boulder.

It’s not that much cooler than some summer days. And, I’m wearing my summer running stuff. Yet, you can tell fall is almost here (or is already here?). How? What makes the difference? I love this poem by W.S. Merwin that I first posted a few years ago for giving some answers:

To the Light of September/ W.S. Merwin

When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not

and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground

but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later

you
who fly with them

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night

perfect in the dew

Looked up mullein. It grows in Minnesota. Have I seen it? Possibly, I can’t quite tell.

a possible exercise: Go out for a run in early fall, when it still seems like summer. How do you know fall is coming/here?

quality of the light, a softer glow
slashes of red
kids biking to school
goldenrod
busy squirrels
geese

I feel a little stuck on the poem about my love of choppy water and the fun of punching the waves that I’ve been working on, without much progress, for the last week. Why do I like doing this? It’s not out of agression or frustration or grief. I’m not trying to hurt myself or break something. It’s about using/working my body, testing my strength, spending some energy. During the run, I had a thought: it’s not an expression of power, but of belief — belief in strong shoulders and my ability to hit a wall and not fall. Later, after I turned on the music, the song “Energy,” came on. Listening to the lyrics, I thought about how energy fits in with punching waves. I decided that when I got back from my run, I’d look up the lyrics and think about them some more. Beyoncé’s energy is a bit different than mine, but it is helping me to think more broadly about what the term could mean.

Energy/ Beyoncé

On stage rockin’, I’m stir crazy
Coco flow like 1980s
Come, let’s tell a drop lazy
None of that maybe energy (nah)
Energy
Energy
Just vibe
Votin’ out forty-five
Don’t get outta line (yeah)
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
Pick a side
Only double lines we cross is dollar signs (yeah)
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh (hold up)
Wait, I hear you just got paid
Make it rain energy
She more Cancun, he more St. Tropez
Big wave in the room, the crowd gon’ move
Look around everybody on mute
Look around it’s me and my crew
Big energy
He was on stop mode, got froze
Froze front page Vogue, no pose
Chat too much, full clip unload
That’s that Kodak energy
Energy
Energy
Energy
Yeah, yeah
Gold links, raw denim
You know that we do it grande
You know that I’m gon’ be extra
When that camera go pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop
Keep ’em waitin’ like dot-dot-dot-dot-dot-dot
Ooh, la, la, la
That’s the way them boys sound when I walk through the block-block-block
Then I Uzi that doozy, shot-shot-shot
We was chillin’, mindin’ our business
Poppin’ our pain and champagne through the ceiling
Sippin’ it up, flickin’ it up
All this good energy got you all in your feelings, feelings
I’m crazy, I’m swearin’
I’m darin’, your man starin’
I just entered the country with Derringers
‘Cause them Karens just turned into terrorists
You was on stop mode, got froze
Froze front page Vogue, no pose
Chat too much, full clip unload
That’s that Kodak energy (go, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go)
Energy
Energy (go, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go)
Energy
Yeah, yeah

no maybe energy, vital, alive, extra, not frozen or stopped, less talk more action

4.4 milesminnehaha falls and back43 degrees

10 Things I Remember

5 milesmarshall loop — up to prior avenue62 degrees

3.35 milesunder the ford bridge and back57 degrees!

9 Things I Noticed, 1 I Didn’t

3.1 milesmarshall loop61 degrees!

Threshold Gods/ Jenny George

3.75 milestrestle turn around + extra35 degrees

image of the day

bike: 30 minutesbasement, bike stand

Marie Howe and the Moment

The Moment/ Marie Howe

3.25 milesmarshall loop42 degrees / 16 mph

image of the day

Part of Eve’s Discussion/ Marie Howe

The Meadow/ Marie Howe

3.3 milesedmund, south/river road trail, north/edmund, south35 degrees

The Beginning of the Beginning/ Phuong T. Vuong

indoor bike: 15 minutesbike standtreadmill run: 1 mileoutdoor run: 2 miles34 degrees / icy drizzle

Circle/Dana Knott

indoor bike: 30 minutesbasement, bike stand43 degrees

Forest of Beginnings/ Mai Der Vang

5.5 milesford loop51 degrees

6.05 milesbottom of franklin hill and back51 degrees

10 People I Encountered

word of the day: bombinate

4.25 milescleveland loop44 degrees

10 Things I Noticed

3.1 milestrestle turn around43 degrees / mist

The Night Migrations/ Louise Glück

We grow accustomed to the Dark –/ Emily Dickinson

6.1 milesminnehaha dog park and back*53 degrees

10+ Things I Noticed

The Secret in the Mirror/ Alberto Ríos

2.5 miles2 trails60 degrees

10 Things I Noticed*

Living Tenderly/ May Swenson

5.4 milesford loop61 degrees

10 Things I Noticed

October/ May Swenson1

2

3

4

5

6

7

5.25 milesprior loop*57 degrees

Image of the Day

10 Things I Remember

leaf watch, 2022

EDNA/ Todd Dillard

3.1 milestrestle turn around57 degrees

5.5 milesford loop48 degrees

leaf watch, 2022

I’ve Been Thinking about Love Again/ Vievee Francis

A page from Frank: Sonnets/ Diane Seuss

3.1 milesturkey hollow57 degrees

Along the River/ Lorine Niedecker

4.4 milesst. thomas loop*57 degrees / humidity: 88%

3.1 miles2 trails55 degrees

Fall/ Ed Ochester

5.75 milesfranklin loop60 degrees

10 Things I Noticed

Autumn/ Linda Pastan

Let Evening Come/ Jane Kenyon

2.5 milesaround lake nokomis75 degrees

10 Things I Noticed

Glaucoma/ Charlene Fix

4.6 milesto longfellow gardes and the falls60 degrees / humidity: 90%

10 Things I Noticed

The River/ Cole Swenson

4.6 milesfranklin bridge and back64 degrees / humidity: 87%

leaf watch, fall 2022

image of the day

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died / Emily Dickinson

3.5 milesmarshall loop to cleveland*67 degrees / humidity: 84%

10 Things I Noticed

leaf watch, fall 2022

4 milesminnehaha falls and back66 degrees / drizzle

5.6 milesthe flats and back62 degrees / humidity: 80%

4.4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
43 degrees

5 miles
marshall loop — up to prior avenue
62 degrees

3.35 miles
under the ford bridge and back
57 degrees!

3.1 miles
marshall loop
61 degrees!

3.75 miles
trestle turn around + extra
35 degrees

bike: 30 minutes
basement, bike stand

3.25 miles
marshall loop
42 degrees / 16 mph

3.3 miles
edmund, south/river road trail, north/edmund, south
35 degrees

indoor bike: 15 minutes
bike stand
treadmill run: 1 mile
outdoor run: 2 miles
34 degrees / icy drizzle

indoor bike: 30 minutes
basement, bike stand
43 degrees

5.5 miles
ford loop
51 degrees

6.05 miles
bottom of franklin hill and back
51 degrees

4.25 miles
cleveland loop
44 degrees

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
43 degrees / mist

6.1 miles
minnehaha dog park and back*
53 degrees

2.5 miles
2 trails
60 degrees

5.4 miles
ford loop
61 degrees

October/ May Swenson

1

5.25 miles
prior loop*
57 degrees

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
57 degrees

5.5 miles
ford loop
48 degrees

3.1 miles
turkey hollow
57 degrees

4.4 miles
st. thomas loop*
57 degrees / humidity: 88%

3.1 miles
2 trails
55 degrees

5.75 miles
franklin loop
60 degrees

2.5 miles
around lake nokomis
75 degrees

4.6 miles
to longfellow gardes and the falls
60 degrees / humidity: 90%

4.6 miles
franklin bridge and back
64 degrees / humidity: 87%

3.5 miles
marshall loop to cleveland*
67 degrees / humidity: 84%

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
66 degrees / drizzle

5.6 miles
the flats and back
62 degrees / humidity: 80%