6.2 miles minnehaha dog park and back 53 degrees wind: 15 mph
Back on track with the weekly “long” run with Scott. Today we ran past the falls to the dog park, then turned around. Beautiful but windy. Not sure if this has ever happened before, but a gust of wind blew my cap off my head. I joked with Scott that the wind was mad at me for the bad poetry I was composing. Something about how the bright sunlight strobed through the trees while the leaves disrobed and the wind probed the empty space where red and gold and green had been. Pretty bad — I guess I deserved to get my hat knocked off. Thankfully I was able to catch the cap before it blew into the street.
After we passed the falls, which were in full flow, I recited Mary Oliver’s “Can You Imagine” to Scott as we followed the paved trail on the edge of the bluff, above Minnehaha creek as it travels to the Mississippi. When I was finished he admitted he had become distracted when I recited the line, Surely you can’t imagine they just stand there loving every minute of it” because he started thinking about the song with the lyrics, “loving every minute of it.” At the time I couldn’t remember who sang it or how it went, but I just looked it up. Loverboy. Excellent.
10 Things
a bright yellow tree
next to a fiery red one, both glowing from the sun
my favorite orange tree near the double bridge, now bare and looking brittle
3 roller skiers! Before I saw them, I heard their poles click click clacking
a pileated woodpecker laughing, somewhere in the trees
another woodpecker tap tap tapping away at the roof of the kiosk
May Swenson’s scarcely gliding stream from her poem “October”: Minnehaha Creek as seen from the tall bridge that crosses over the Veteran’s Home
from the top of the bluff at Wabun Park, you have a clear view of the new development on the old Ford plant grounds
the glitter effect: the sparkling water burning through a gap in the trees
dodging walkers, a few with coffee cups, as we sprinted down the hill and through the tunnel of trees
Wow, so much yellow. Full fall color, I think. I was sore this morning from my run yesterday, but glad I went out to be with all of this beautiful color!
I listened to a playlist, then took out my headphones while I was on the Winchell Trail, then put the playlist back in for the last mile. Ended the run with the theme to Rocky — not on purpose; it happened to come up on shuffle.
Smelled the sewer, heard the limestone dripping, called out right behind you several times. Thought (again) about stopping at the overlook to take a picture of the wonderful view of the river, but didn’t. Instead, I stopped at the entrance to the Winchell Trail and took this shot:
entering the Winchell Trail from the south
10 Things
4 or 5 stones still stacked on the ancient boulder
the floodplain forest is almost all yellow
the sewer gas from below smelled sour and unpleasant
a Minneapolis Park truck was parked in the grass above the gravel trail that descends through the ravine — are they planning to clear out more dead limbs below?
encounter 1: 2 people with 2 big black dogs on the Winchell trail — right behind you / sorry / no worries. It’s a beautiful morning!
encounter 2: a man with his dog — right behind you / no words, but he moved over slightly / thanks!
the “edge of the world” was mostly bare, with only a few streaks of yellow left
avoiding roots on the dirt trail next to edmund, imagining that I was doing agility drills
taking off my pink jacket at the bottom of the 38th street steps
encounter 3: 2 different people with dogs, or a dog?, bypassing the steps and continuing on the dirt trail to the oak savanna
Overdressed. Didn’t need the tights under the shorts or the long-sleeved shirt under the sweat shirt. Made the run a little more difficult. Still, a good run on a beautiful fall morning. Lots of yellow today. Very fall-y.
10 Things
St. Thomas bells chiming
I could see my breath at the beginning of the run
the light making the yellow leaves glow
at least 4, maybe 5, stones stacked on the ancient boulder
a biker calling out to me as I ran on the St. Paul side, good job! —Thanks!
looking down at the river from up on the lake street bridge: a sandbar! I’ve read about the sandbars, and thought I saw one just below the surface, but today, there it was, fully exposed
an inviting bench, perched above the gorge with an open view
almost perfect moment: looking down at the water falling over the limestone ledge, sparkling in the sun, murmuring softly, framed by yellow leaves
a west bound lane on the ford bridge closed off for construction, orange cones everywhere
running up to the “edge of the world,” and stopping to admire the open view
I stopped on the bridge to take a picture of the sandbar:
a sandbar in the Mississippi River below the lake street bridge
3.6 miles locks and dam no. 1 hill 51 degrees wind: 13 mph
My knees were sore last night and this morning and I wondered if I should go out for a run, but it’s supposed to rain later today and all of tomorrow, and I read an article that said sometimes running on sore legs is better than not running, so I ran. And I’m glad I did. My legs/knees feel better after than they did before.
Felt windier than 13 mph. It almost knocked my cap off.
I listened to beeping trucks and chainsaws and rushing wind as I ran south. When I got to the top of the hill at the locks and dam no 1 I stopped and put in a Bruno Mars playlist.
10 Things
the dirt on the boulevard was sometimes dark brown, sometimes light brown
more trees without leaves — have we passed peak leaf season?
a parks’ truck blocking the entrance to the overlook and the winchell trail — no winchell trail for me today
running up the hill, the sun came out briefly from behind the clouds, just enough for me to see the faint outline of my shadow. Hello friend!
more crunching leaves in the grass — brittle, brown, formed into little mounds by the wind
a rough trunk with lichen growing on it — on the north side — a faint, yellowish green
several different versions of green on the tree trunk and the grass
walking past a giant rectangular hole in the street — the spot where they busted open the street to work on the water pipes. Minutes before, workers had filled it with warm, bitter smelling tar (or asphalt?) Heat was coming off the filled hole, warming my legs
a falling red leaf hit me on the shoulder
color of the day: bright yellowish green. Not only was I wearing a shirt in that color, but I saw at least 3 other yellowish green shirts on a runner, a walker, and a biker
After staring at the yellowish greenish lichen, I took a picture of it:
a close-up of a tree with lichen on its north side
Ah, this fall weather! What a morning to be outside by the gorge. A little windier than I’d like, but wonderful. My legs felt a little stiff and sore, but I kept going and they got better. In the third mile, I started chanting triple berries. Just the same three again and again: strawberry blueberry raspberry strawberry blueberry raspberry. They helped me stay in a good rhythm.
10 Things
rowers on the river! 6 or 8 in one shell
the river was blue heading east, brown on the return trip west
either wind or water through the trees, making a shimmering sound
still so much green everywhere
2 different bikes blasting music that I couldn’t quite identify
click clack click clack — a roller skier passing me as we neared the lake street bridge
a minute later, a rollerblader approaching from the north, heading south
flowers in the pipe sticking out of the trestle railing that’s been turned into a vase — a memorial for someone
a man using a DIY walker/runner — bike wheels, yellow frame (I think I’m remembering that right?)
the glitter effect: wind + sun + water = wow
My view facing south on the Lake Street bridge
No geese or fat tires or Daddy Long Legs. Also, no headphones. Listened to the wind, radios, conversations, my feet thudding on the ground.
I stopped at my favorite part of the tunnel of trees. Walking up the small hill, I noticed leaves gently falling from the trees, birds chirping, the light coming through the canopy. I decided to stop and take a short video:
at the end of my run, above the floodplain forest
Here’s how I see/hear this video: The view of a canopy of trees. Occasionally, a leaf stirs in the wind. All around this view, leaves were drifting down one at a time. If I put my face right up to the screen — nose touching — I can see that these trees are GREEN!, but with my face a foot away, the scene looks grayish brownish, with only the whisper of green. When recording this video, I mostly heard the birds and not the cars above me on the road. But watching the video I hear mostly the loud rushing of cars and some wind. The birds are very quiet.
The birds, both remembered from when I stood at the spot recording this video and heard in this clip, made me think of a wonderful bird poem I discovered yesterday:
Sudden dash of light in the corner of my eye, a soundless flash in hazy swathe of trees leaps stealthily from the small maple to the crabapple that has taken this year’s drought hard. My eyes bore into foliage. Is it a mynah? Dad, you taught me well how to look and listen. This is Michigan, and it’s probably a grackle, but I think of the crow pheasant (the coucal) I often watched in India, a wily master of camouflage. I remember the first
time I ever saw one close up. I was seven or maybe eight, sickly and bookish. While sitting in the shade of a sprawling gulmohar that dropped scarlet whorls of flowers on me, it darted from under the hibiscus. So graceful its arched tail, so fiery its beady eyes. I was reading some Enid Blyton novel about young girls in a boarding school in rainy England who ate scones and crumpets, and had
fabulous adventures. It was a hot afternoon as this avian beauty that normally threaded light woodland and field slipped into my grandaunt Lily’s garden. She was a famous doctor at Tata Hospital when few women stayed single and had careers. She drove a grey Standard Herald, and her frantic beeping of the horn sent her gardener’s sons rushing to throw open the low iron gates when she came home. Once, she gave me a nest a weaver bird had abandoned. It adorned my bedroom for years. She would tell me
about the trips she had taken when she was young. All over Europe, and yes, to the Isle of Capri—her favorite. All eyes, I would listen. Then she would sing “‘Twas on the Isle of Capri …” or play a Vera Lynn record. Did she have many lovers? I wanted to wear expensive Dhaka saris, high heels, smoke cigarettes (as I had seen her do at dinner parties sometimes), travel— be like her. Would I ever go anywhere? I who failed in math and science, hated bullies, hated school. My head sailed in the clouds. My brain, they told me, was for the birds. My handwriting a bird’s nest. My weak fingers would never grasp a pen properly, my legs never walk normally again. When would my flesh grow light, my bones breathe only air so I could fly? When the bird
appeared from nothing, shapes shifted, my book levitated. The bird floated, not walked. Did it even have feet? I felt my weight lift. Floating was as good as flying. It seemed not to see me, as if it were a peaceful spirit passing through. Strange girl, they said. A dreamer. Did I imagine it then? Hearing a creak of leaf and branch near my deck, the blur I saw earlier turns to flesh and blood—a gawky crow who arrows to the roof from the forsythia and caws shrilly. Curious juvenile, her glance is full of questions. Friend or foe? Food or death? I throw my head back, look up at her. She peers at me over the edge. I slip indoors for bread, then leave ripped bits on the railings. Where is she? She’s hiding somewhere, watching me
watch her. They emerge and melt, these wily beings— show a wingtip, glitter of eye, flick of tail. Leave me a feather to dream on, a map to follow. My mother and I fed them scraps everyday.They jostled each other on the ledge, fought for crumbs, always hung around our windows. Then disappeared into neem, peepul, or the banyan tree as big as a city. Did they wonder where we’d gone? Had they heard us weep? Had they pecked at the shuttered windows and silence? Wild fig seedlings now grow from cracked brick. A sudden woosh
of wing beats. Listen! The air throbs. Three trumpeters pass over me to land on the pond. I wave. This is where I live. And there and here and there. Crow, sparrow, finch, blue jay, nuthatch, chickadee, cardinal, mallard, cormorant, heron, geese, swan. They visit, feed and fade. Return. They know their own. I’m for the birds. I’m never alone.
I love how place — both India and Michigan — are so present in this poem. And I love the story she tells, about seeing a bird in India, being a misfit only for the birds, looking up to her grandaunt, and how she tells it. Also, I want to think some more about this line: All eyes, I would listen.
Ran the ford loop with Scott. Finally, it’s cooler. Much easier to run. We talked about a problematic NYTimes article that Scott had read earlier that was so sloppily edited that they spelled Gov Walz’s name wrong (as Waltz, I think). We also talked about the rowers on the river and the Brooks’ mile on the marathon course.
Mostly the run was easy. My IT band was acting up by the end and I rolled my ankle on something in the grass in the last mile.
Running over the lake street bridge I noticed a single shell on the water. Then more shells, some with only one rower, one with eight. Then buoys. A race! A few minutes later a woman overheard us wondering about it and told us it was a tournament. It was so quiet on the bridge that we were able to hear the oars slapping the water. They made such a delightfully awkward sound. Without sound, the rowers float effortlessly over the water. But when you can hear the oars you can feel the effort of their rowing. I like being able to hear them; they feel more real that way, more body, less machine.
10 Things
dark blue water. near the edges it looked almost black
the lamps lining the path on the st. paul side were on, the ones on the minneapolis side were not — the minneapolis have been stripped of wires and never repaired/replaced
rowers’ voices drifting up from the river near Shadow Falls
it started overcast, almost gray. by the time we were done, the sky was bright blue
a chipmunk darted in front of me, narrowly missing my foot
plenty of color on both sides of the river — yellow, red, orange
the ford bridge stretched in front of us, looking longer than it usually does
on both the lake street and ford bridges, a tiring wind blowing into us
a motor boat near the shore. I wondered if its wake would cause problems for the rowers
turkeys! 3 of them in someone’s yard on the st. paul side
Typed “oars” in the search box on Poetry Foundation and found this poem. I like the form and want to read the larger work — Emptied of all Ships — that it comes from:
Hooray for (slightly) cooler weather! And hooray for legs that let me go out to the gorge this morning! I love fall running, almost as much as winter running, but not quite. Today I was able to greet Dave, the Daily Walker and run a 5k without wanting to stop. It was windy. Not a helpful wind that pushes me along, but a frustrating wind that is always in my face.
No playlist today. Instead, I listened to the wind and a buzzing sound coming from somewhere below the lake street bridge.
10 Things
the slap of a runner’s feet as she ran past me
a bright circle of white light through the trees — the river
overheard: some of those hills are ____? Didn’t get to hear the ending
running north, it is still mostly green
encountered: a few runners, some bikers, walkers with and without dogs, a big stroller
one runner’s gait: smooth, strong, steady feet up and down up and down
another runner’s gait: jerky with flailing arms
and one more runner’s gait: fast with quick thuds as their feet pounded the pavement
a buzz below — was it a weed whacker? leaf blower? a much bigger machine?
the ravine between the 34th and 35th street parking lots is thick with green. Still no view of the black iron fence or the limestone ledge below it
the view above the ravine, between the 34th and 35th street parking lots
I don’t remember hearing any birds or dripping water or roller skier’s poles. No fat tires or radios or rowers. Only a quick view of the river. A few yellow leaves, some red. No orange.
4.4 miles longfellow gardens and back 64 degrees / 78% humidity
A little cooler, but still humid. More shorts and tank top. Decided to run past the falls to Longfellow Garden to check out the flowers. Oranges, reds, pinks, purples, yellows. Did the gray sky make the colors seem even more vibrant to me?
The falls were gushing, so was the creek. The sound of dripping water from the sewer mixed with the wind. Chainsaws echoed below me in the gorge as Minneapolis Parks workers removed dead branches and leaning trees.
Running on the part of the trail that dips below the road, between locks and dam no. 1 and the 44th street parking lot, I could smell the rotting leaves — the too sweet, stale smell of last night’s beer. Yuck! Did I smell anything else? Yes! The strong scent of burnt toast or burnt coffee beans or burnt something somewhere in the neighborhood. The soft, pleasing scent of the tall, fuzzy grass that Scott says smells like cilantro.
I listened to kids being dropped off for school as I ran south. At my favorite spot at the falls, I put in an old playlist. I took my headphones out again when I reached the Winchell Trail. Then I put them back in after I was done and walking home. I listened to a chapter about the benefits of being small in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss.
Since I’m prepping for a week about fall color for my class, I tried to notice color on my run.
10 Things I Noticed: Color
there is still so much green. Everywhere, green. Not dark winter green, but light summer green
a few slashes of red on the edge of the trail, the bright red hair of a walker
orange cones, orange vests, orange signs, a past-its-prime orange tree, orange school bus, orange flowers sticking out above the other flowers
hot pink petals, still intact
flowers glowing such a light, almost white, purple that I imagined them to be ghost flowers
yellow safety vests on a long line of bikers crossing at the roundabout, backing up traffic
dry and dead brown leaves on the edge of the trail, covering the path
the dark blueish gray of crumbling asphalt
dark brown mud
white foam from the raging falls
While walking around the garden, I took a few pictures:
Longfellow Gardens, fall flowers in bright colors that I mostly cannot seeghost flowers at Longfellow Gardens
I love this description of what poetry is/could or should be:
Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:
the work of a poet: to imagine; to do more than reproduce toxic stories; to make your people feel safe, seen, loved; survival
Warm, again. More summer attire: shorts, orange tank top. Tomorrow it is supposed to be cooler.
Scott and I ran around Lake Nokomis together. Strange to be sweating so much while running over so many fallen leaves. Summer air, fall ground.
As we ran, we talked about the wet bulb temperature and the flag system for determining when a race should be cancelled.
10 Things
the little beach covered in honking geese
the low rumble of a plane flying overhead
cracked, uneven pavement
a fishy, lake-y smell near the dock
a wonderful view of the water from the small hill between the bridge and 50th
an empty, buoy-less swimming area
a memorial hanging from a fence with bouquets of flowers — was this for the girl who drowned in August?
watch out for the pumpkin guts on the path, they might be slippery!
a woman sitting on a bench, listening to the news on her phone, then a song with a driving beat that I suggested (to Scott) would be good to run to
blue water with small ripples, sparkling in spots from the sun
In September, I did my own variation on wordle, which I called birdle. The first word had to be a bird. This month it’s boo-dle or spooky wordle or something like that. The first word must be a spooky word. So far I’ve done: ghost, witch, ghoul
This poem was the poem-of-the-day on poems.com on Sunday:
Chance threads woven together in coordinated movement
I close my eyes and try to feel my blood pumping
Instead I feel you, walking miles, melting into hills and flowers
The simple power of circling a lake
You knew how to lose yourself, how to leave space
Walking to find a way to be whole
Bird song, leaves rustling
I fall into this moment, my atoms spun just so
This heartbeat is not mine alone
Two bodies walking
Two layers of sound in motion together, hundreds of years apart
Words stored deep in muscle-memory
Carried in hunger, in bruises
Reflected back by grass, branches, rocks
How do I get this voice out of me?
Love this poem. It makes me think of Thomas Gardner and his discussions in Poverty Creek Journal about running with the ghost of his dead brother. It also make me think of my early poem about running with my mom. And, the first lines — trees, light, weather, people — makes me think of Georges Perec and his attempt at exhausting a place by focusing on what happens when nothing happens — weather, people, cars, and clouds.
Reading Graeper’s bio, I found this very interesting bit:
Explorations of place—real, remembered, escaped, imagined—are at the core of his poems. Graeper created a site-specific, handmade Park Book series based on places like New York’s Central Park and Battery Park, which he distributed surreptitiously.
I did this too; I just didn’t distribute it to anyone. Maybe I should? First I need to record myself reading the poems and set up the audio tour.
3.5 miles 2 trails and a hill 69 degrees / dew point: 60
Another hot, sticky morning. Yesterday it was so warm that they cancelled the Twin Cities Marathon. Wow. It wasn’t just the temp — it got up to 91 — but the dew point and the humidity.
I’m calling this route, “2 trails and a hill,” because I did my 2 trails route (running above heading south, running below on the Winchell Trail heading north), but also kept running south to the locks and dam no. 1, then down the hill and back up it before heading north and entering the Winchell Trail.
I’m on day 10 of being sick. I’m almost over it, but still have congestion — stuffy nose, crud on my chest. Our (me, Scott, RJP who is sick now) latest theory is that this sickness is the flu. Scott’s not getting it because he got his flu shot. Makes sense to me. This sickness shares some similarities with my usual cold, but is also different. It has knocked me out more, making it harder to run. My heart rate was unusually elevated for a day. I have a swollen lymph node in my armpit. I’m ready for it to be over.
bird tryptych
one: Sitting on the deck early this morning with my coffee, I heard one goose honking, then the sound of something sharply cutting through the air. Almost like scissors — swish swish swish swish. I looked up and saw a vee of geese! Maybe a dozen, speeding by in formation, not a single honk, only the swish of their wings.
two: Running south, just past the double bridge near the 44th st parking lot, I saw movement in the trees. 2 birds — were they geese or turkeys? I couldn’t tell — they were hiding in the bushes and I was moving too fast — but I decided they must be turkeys.
three: Running back north, close to the double bridge again, I saw the birds again. Definitely turkeys. They flapped their wings a little as they moved to the side for me. Thanks friends! A few seconds later, a bike passed me. I heard the biker ringing his bell over and over to alert the turkeys. ding ding ding ding ding ding
added the next morning, a bonus bird!: Last night Scott and I walked over to Sea Salt. On our way home, on the winchell trail, we saw a turkey on the fence — or, Scott saw a turkey and kept pointing it out to me until I finally saw it too. As we neared it, it flew away and into a tree. Crash! That might be the first time I’ve ever seen a turkey fly!
10 Things
nearing the entrance to the Winchell trail: the water was almost white and very bright from the sun
at the bottom of the hill, looking ahead at the ford bridge: the curve of the bridge was reflected in the water, almost, but not quite, looking like a smile
more glimpses of the river, white and glittery, through the trees
a biker on the hill, climbing it, then looping around to descend and climb again
the sound of water steadily dropping from the sewer pipe at 42nd
the buzz of crickets
the croak of a few frogs
car after car after car heading north on the river road — difficult to cross
all around, rustling sounds — dry, brittle leaves being disturbed by critters moving through the brush
beep beep beep beep beep — a truck backing up on edmund, trying not to hit the dumpster parked on the street
When I approached the “edge of the world,” I decided to stop and take a picture of it:
at the edge of the world / 2 oct 2023
When I finished my run, a mile and half later, I stopped at the 35th overlook to admire the view. When I saw my shadow, I decided to take her picture:
