5.5 miles
franklin hill turn around
22 degrees
Colder. A double tights day. Sunny, not much wind, clear. I love running in this weather, even if it was harder during the first mile because of lingering congestion. I wasn’t sure how much I could manage, but once I warmed up, I was fine.
Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker — hi dave! — and looked down at the floodplain forest — almost all bare branches. Heard some geese. Noticed the pink graffiti under the I-94 bridge. Passed another lone black glove on the ground, and a black jacket draped over a tree, making the tree look like a person. Was tricked again by the stone slabs under franklin that look like someone sitting. Avoided the uneven asphalt halfway up and out of the tunnel of trees. Saw that there were stones stacked on the boulder, but forgot to count them. I know I looked down at the river many times, but the only thing I can remember about it was the thin line of icy foam at the edge of longfellow flats.
Thought about breathing and whether or not running in this cold was good for the crud in my throat. Tried to keep my shoulders relaxed and my left arm swinging forward more, my right swinging backward.
Found this quotation yesterday. So much of my writing centers on counting syllables and using syllables to guide my lines. And not just any syllables, but syllables that mimic my breathing pattern while swimming (5) or running (3/2).
The most important thing I find is to live by the syllable. When I’m writing, I don’t think about sentences, lines or words, I’m totally living by the syllable.
Rowan Rocard Phillips
The poem of the day on poems.com had a line that made me smile because it’s almost one of my favorites from Anne Sexton’s “The Nude Swim” — the real fish did not mind.
Returning to the Village/ Stephanie Niu
That gray hut is where I first learned to swim. They pushed us
through a gap in the floorboards. Dropped down a rope
to hold. It took us several panicked kicks to find
that we knew how to do it. Once under, our eyes adjusted
to the salt’s burn and gleam. The fish did not care.
They turned their long bodies and became something’s dinner.
At home, toweled off, we ate from plates of tasteless crackers
bought from the only supermarket with sides salt-faded
to white. The woman who owns it still lives inside.
She has no sons; the fish she sells comes frozen
in boxes from the mainland. I once saw her crouch
on the jetty at dawn and place a basket into the water,
raise it again full of leathery fish flopping against her arms.
She gutted them. They were so small. I watched
her toss what was left of them back to the ocean.