5.65 miles
almost to the dog park and back
45 degrees / blustery
Windy this morning. Good bye colorful leaves! Lots of yellow, some pale, some a rich gold. A few darting squirrels, an occasional goose honk. A school group arriving at the falls the same time I did — such a cacophony of flailing arms, spinning legs, and screaming voices as the kids were let loose from their bus. I heard a loud rushing sound that I thought was the falls, but it was coming from a sewer drain. The creek was moving fast because of all of the rain the past 4 or 5 days. I wore my BRIGHT yellow 10 mile shirt, my hot dash pull-over with a hood, tights, shorts, a hat. The path was slick from yesterday’s rain, the air above the river was misty.
As I ran, I occasionally recited poems — “Crows”/Marilyn Nelson, “Turkey Vultures”/Ted Kooser, “Invitation”/Mary Oliver. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes….
Right after I finished my run, I remembered to stop and take a picture of the vine on a fence that I admire in the winter when the it blooms frost. Today it is covered in deep red leaves, some big, some small.
Vision Lost [still] / Vision Lost [grass]
still
As I ran, I thought more about my still poem. Some of my thoughts were about specific word choices — instead of go or run in one of my lines, I’d like to try float or fly. Some of my thoughts were about images — 1. still = the stone-like features of faces that are smudged and stuck/frozen, but that I’ve gotten used to and know that even though I can’t see them, a face/a person continues to exist (they are still there) and 2. stillness as a thickening and slowing, being enveloped and encased in an opaque something
grass
Reading through old entries, I came across a beautiful grass line from Mary Oliver in a log entry from 5 november 2019:
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
(Mindful/ Mary Oliver)
I’d like to write a Vision Lost [grass] poem. How will it relate to my vision loss?