2.55 miles
2 trails
20 degrees / feels like 9
Today I hit my yearly goal of 1000 miles! It was cold, but not too cold. No frozen fingers or numb toes. I ran at 2:30 in the long, afternoon light. Wow — I love the light at this time in the season and the day. Why? Longer shadows, a feeling of everything slowing down, settling in, preparing to rest. I stayed up above as I ran south, then turned down to the entrance of the Winchell Trail on the way back north. The river was a wonderful purplish-blue and scaly from the wind. My legs felt sluggish, and my feet were sore on the uneven asphalt. I stopped briefly near the edge of the world to make note of the moment — the sun, lowering, purple-blue river, a steep slope, water falling from the sewer pipe. Not a slow drip, but a shimmering shower. Yes — I thought about a section of my poem and how my description of water as dripping from the pipe wasn’t the only way to describe it. Often, it’s more than drips.
10 Things
- a graceful roller skier. I don’t remember hearing their poles, just watching the way the relaxed and flowing rhythm of their arms and legs
- the river through the trees at the Horace Cleveland Overlook — purple, slight agitated from wind
- encountering a walker climbing the hill near Winchell, bundled up in a winter coat with his hood up
- my shadow — so tall! — in front of me, once she left the path and went into the woods
- the top railing of one section of iron fence which should be straight was curved in — what caused that to happen?
- the jingle-jangle of a dog collar somewhere
- dry leaves rustling in the brush beyond the trail
- the smell of smoke at the usual spot on edmund
- a tall person in a coat swinging up against the iron fence near the 38th street stairs
- someone on a hoverboard or a strange skateboard with a bright light on the front, moving fast along the trail — I thought skateboard because they seemed to moving like a skateboard across the path in gentle arcs
An Entrance/ Malena Mörling
For Max
If you want to give thanks
but this time not to the labyrinth
of cause and effect-
Give thanks to the plain sweetness of a day
when it’s as if everywhere you turn
there is an entrance-
When it’s as if even the air is a door-
And your child is a door
afloat on invisible hinges.
“The world is a house,” he says,
over lunch as if to give you a clue-
And before the words dissolve
above his plate of eggs and rice
you suddenly see how we are in it-
How everywhere the air
is holding hands with the air-
How everyone is connected
to everyone else by breathing.
The air as a door, breathing as a way we are connected.