Tag: afternoon

dec 16/RUN

6 miles
bohemian flats and back
37 degrees

Warmer today! And clear, ice-free paths! Not looking like December at all. I decided to run to the flats so I could see if the water seeping out of the rock wall was still frozen now that it had warmed up. It looked like it was, at least to me, but I could hear some trickling water too. What will it look like this afternoon? I heard a few geese, admired the form of a few other runners after they passed me, noticed my shadow and a few streaks of blue sky when the sun came out from behind the clouds briefly. It wasn’t the easiest run, but it wasn’t the hardest either.

Heading north, I listened to a train — or was it a light rail? — horn honking repeatedly. Not sure what was happening; too many honks, and too insistent, for business as usual. Was there an accident? Returning south, I put in my “It’s Windy” playlist, but then switched to “Slappin’ Shadows.”

Here’s a wonderful poem I discovered this morning. That last line!

Sign/ Sahar Romani

After Rumi, After Terrance Hayes

What aren’t you willing to believe. A heart  
graffitied fuchsia on the street, a missive from another life.  
Remember the stem of lavender you found 
in a used copy of Bishop’s poems, a verse underlined:  
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. Suddenly, across the aisle  
a woman with your mother’s bracelets, her left wrist  
all shimmer and gold, you almost winced.  
Coincidence is the great mystery of the human mind 
but so is the trans-oceanic reach of Shah Rukh Khan’s  
slow blink. Each of us wants a hint, a song 
that dares us to look inside. True, it takes whimsy  
and ego to believe the universe will tap your shoulder  
in the middle of a random afternoon. That t-shirt  
on a stranger’s chest, a bumper sticker on the highway upstate.  
Truth isn’t going anywhere. It’s your eyes passing by.

Today I’m working on a section of Haunts about forms and shadows and seeing things slant, off to the side, in order to grasp (some of) their truth. I’m thinking I will mention how the mississippi is one of the more trained/shaped/managed rivers — with locks, dams, dredging.

a lone black glove

Almost always, when I see a discarded glove on the ground on my run it is black. Okay, today, I saw a gray one draped on a branch. As I walked home after my run, I encountered a lone black glove on the ground and decided to take a picture of it.

a black glove in the center of dirt and brown grass
a lone black glove

added, 17 dec 2024: As I was working on a section of Haunts about form, I remembered something else I witnessed yesterday during my run. Somewhere between the trestle and lake street bridge, I noticed a form on the ground, just through the trees. I think it was a sleeping bag with someone (possibly) in it. I’ve seen it here before, but only as a quick flash while I run by. Am I seeing it correctly, or is it like the stacked limestone under the franklin bridge that I always think is a person sitting up against one of the pilings?

dec 9/RUN

2.4 miles
2 trails
39 degrees

A quick run with Scott. It felt colder than 39 because of the wind. Scott talked about an annoying problem with moving a client to a different server and I talked about my current poem and where to go with it. Then Scott mentioned a small monitor he wants to get and how, of the four options, 3 cost $`100 with $25 shipping and one cost $110 with $15 shipping. I wondered which option people respond to more, and this thinking about how people chose reminded me of the latest If Books Could Kill podcast about the book, What’s the Matter with Kansas?, and why people vote the way the do. Of course this led to a discussion about the current state of politics and how we’re both doing (surprisingly okay and trying to protect our mental health).

10 Things

  1. the river is more open today but still different versions of gray
  2. the wrought iron fence is bent in the middle and at the top — what happened? we noticed a thick tree branch on the other side of the fence
  3. a somewhat subdued din of laughing and yelling at the playground
  4. a man on a bike unwilling to move over and give us runners and walkers the chance to pass each other
  5. a steady line of cars at the 3-way stop suddenly eased up as we approached — clear sailing across!
  6. a dog with their human turning down the steep-ish dirt path on the far end of the 35th street parking lot
  7. at the end of the run, walking home: the sound of woodpecker high in a tree (heard, never seen, although we both tried to find the bird)
  8. knowing that the wind was at our backs when I saw leaves flying towards us
  9. running by the green water fountain in the parking lot and wondering if there was any way that it was still on — not because I wanted any water, but just because I was curious
  10. sometimes the sun was out, and sometimes it was behind the clouds — what did the clouds look like? Did I even check?

where to take my poem

Where it ends now:

Wind, sun, frigid air,
the effort it takes
to keep moving, a
slow wearing down of
cone cells, soften her
hard shell and cause cracks
that start small then spread
then split her open and
able to feel more
of everything and
everyone here, now
and before.

Talking to Scott while we ran, I wondered if I wanted to end here or write about a section of the trail just north of the trestle that was repaved a few years ago, but cracked open again in less than a year, and then was patched/resealed earlier this year but is now cracked again. I keep thinking about this section. Why? Maybe it’s something about the endless cycle of crack and reseal and the belief that eventually no seal will stop the slope from sliding down into the gorge. Here, at this spot, is evidence of eroding ground and the opportunity to witness time passing on a different scale. Or, maybe it’s a particularly interesting (at least to me) example of how a cracked surface looks and acts. Is there any connection to my small cracks that spread and split? I don’t know.

As I continued talking with Scott, I mentioned Wittgenstein and his need to get off of smooth ice, where it’s difficult to walk, and back on rough ground where friction helps us move. Then I talked about how I don’t like running over cracks and appreciate when they’re repaired, but I don’t often notice smooth pavement. I orient myself on the path by the cracks. The cracks are where the stories are.

And now I’m thinking about how you can’t leave a trace on smooth, sealed asphalt — as opposed to footprints in mud or tamped grass or rutted dirt. Also cracks are where the ground/earth/flowers can poke through. And, I’m reminded of daylighting and how some people/groups are advocating for freeing water from being buried under cement:

the exhumation of streams from underground and reintroduction of them to the surface. There is ample research-based evidence for what seems intuitively true: natural waterways—meaning, those that flow through the topography of a landscape and not through a sewer—support healthier ecosystems than those encased in concrete darkness. Daylighting brings benefits to water quality that include nutrient retention, prevention of algal blooms, and overall more supportive environments for a diversity of species. It also keeps clean water out of the sewer system, where, currently, huge volumes of it unnecessarily go through the sewage treatment process, a waste of resources that can also cause sewers to overflow.

Reaching the Light of Day/ Corinne Segal

Now I’m thinking about management and maintaining and conservation and how this cracked path and its perpetual repair is where many different elements are entangled: park workers trying to maintain safe paths, a shifting and eroding ground — due to the “natural” instability of the area and chemicals from local lawns in the groundwater and seeping into the soil, overuse or misuse by visitors, the impact of heavy traffic on the parkway from commuters.

Where to go with all of this? Unsure, I returned to the part of my poem that’s inspiring this wander and I was struck by this bit:

able to feel more
of everything and
everyone here, now
and before.

A reminder: the cracked path doesn’t have to be an exact metaphor for my cracking open. It doesn’t have to be a metaphor at all. It can be another layer to this idea of this land as a work of art, as crafted/made/shaped into something beautiful (which does not = pretty) that enable us to feel things deeply. I’d like to bring in 2 things I mentioned in my rambling: 1. smooth asphalt doesn’t leave a trace, doesn’t tell a story but cracked asphalt can/does and 2. the process of cracking and sealing and cracking again enables us to witness time passing on a different scale; it makes visible what was invisible — too slow and slight to notice.

Now, time to try and fit these ideas into a few 5 syllable lines!

dec 6/RUN

4 miles
beyond the trestle turn around
32 degrees

Ran in the afternoon today. It’s warmer and darker and looks like it might snow. Everything was heavy and grayish-white. I wore less layers and wasn’t overheated: 1 green long-sleeved shirt, black vest, 1 pair of black running tights, a black headband for my ears, gloves. The trail wasn’t crowded, but the road was — a steady stream of cars. Did any of them have their headlights on? I can’t remember.

I remember noticing the river, but not what it looked like. Was it completely iced over?

Stopped at my usual bench and took a picture of it and the view below it:

the back of a wooden bench, all around it a faint trace of snow and bare branches
the new ritual: visiting this bench and inspecting its slow progress of sliding into the gorge.

I wonder, can someone who is not familiar with the gorge tell that this bench is perched at the edge of a steep slope or that the tree line in the distance is across a great river?

dec 3/RUN

5.2 miles
bottom of franklin hill
21 degrees / feels like 12
75% snow-covered

What a wonderful winter morning for a run! With the sun and my effort, it felt much warmer than it was. The snow wasn’t slippery or deep and made a delightful crunching noise as I stepped down. The river was open again and dark brown. And the birds were so loud — not seen only heard. Mostly I ran on the bike path. Encountered some runners, walkers, dogs, at least 2 bikers, and at least one person smoking on a bench.

a new ritual

Like most of my rituals, this one began with little intention. I decided last week to stop at an inviting bench to check out the view for a moment and now I’m doing it every time I’m returning south from the trestle or beyond. The bench is facing the river and above the white sands beach. At one time I’m sure it was farther from the slope, but not it’s right on the edge. How long before it falls in? Today, while I was looking down at the river, I felt a blur of movement. What was it? Did I imagine it? I waited for a moment and then I saw a dog and their human through the bare trees, walking at the beach. They looked so far away and alone.

10 Things

  1. elementary school kids yelling and laughing out on the school field — such energy unleashed — wow
  2. small prints in the snow
  3. a truck speeding by, revving its engine on a bend in the road
  4. 2 or 3 stones stacked on the boulder, covered in snow
  5. a thin ribbon of bare pavement on the edge of the trail
  6. the feel of my feet sliding slightly as I ran down the snow-covered hill
  7. my faint shadow, just ahead of me, only visible occasionally
  8. the slabs of stone still stacked up under the franklin bridge, looking like a person
  9. all the steps down into the gorge are blocked off with chains
  10. a clump of dead leaves at the top of a tree looking like a monster nest

nov 29/RUN

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

  1. 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
  2. the river through the trees at the Horace Cleveland Overlook — purple, slight agitated from wind
  3. encountering a walker climbing the hill near Winchell, bundled up in a winter coat with his hood up
  4. my shadow — so tall! — in front of me, once she left the path and went into the woods
  5. the top railing of one section of iron fence which should be straight was curved in — what caused that to happen?
  6. the jingle-jangle of a dog collar somewhere
  7. dry leaves rustling in the brush beyond the trail
  8. the smell of smoke at the usual spot on edmund
  9. a tall person in a coat swinging up against the iron fence near the 38th street stairs
  10. 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.

nov 21/RUN

4.15 miles
minnehaha falls and back
37 degrees
wind: 30 mph gusts

Windy and colder. I wore my full winter uniform: black running tights, long-sleeved green shirt, purple jacket, black fleece-lined cap, black gloves, buff. I overdressed — or did I? I can’t decide. It snowed yesterday, but by the time I went out for my run (noon), it had all melted. All that was left were a few puddles.

10 Things

  1. at first I thought the river was blue, but then I decided it was pewter
  2. gushing falls
  3. (almost?) empty park
  4. dark rocks sticking out of the creek — why don’t I remember seeing them before?
  5. the hollow sounding recording of bells from the light rail train across the road
  6. all of the walkers were bundled up like it was winter, which it almost is — winter coats, hats, scarves
  7. a red car in the parking lot, loud talking — a phone call? — coming out of the rolled up windows
  8. a faint smell of smoke from a fire in the gorge
  9. the sound of kids playing on the school playground — a soft din of laughing, talking, shrieking
  10. the stretch of brown wooden fence between folwell and 38th is in rough shape. Today I noticed one section with a broken slat and leaning out into the open air

nov 7/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
48 degrees

Ran with Scott around 3:30. Love that late afternoon fall light! Soft, with long shadows. Do I remember anything else?

10 Things

  1. lots of leaves on the path
  2. a woman bundled up with a winter cap and scarf
  3. a cute dog — small and brown
  4. the pungent smell of poop as I walked by a woman picking up after her dog
  5. feeling cold as the wind pushed up under my sleeves
  6. no stones stacked on the boulder
  7. the long, lean shadow of a tall tree cast on the road
  8. a quick glance down the wooden steps just past the trestle: bare branches
  9. pale yellow leaves on a tree near the lake street bridge
  10. a big crack and deep hole on the edge of the river road — that’ll pop a tire! (Scott)

And here’s part of a November poem I found in some notes for Haunts. It’s by A.R. Ammons, one my favorite poets:

Configuration/ A.R. Ammons

1

when November stripped
the shrub,
what stood
out
in revealed space was
a nest
hung
in essential limbs

2

how harmless truth is in cold weather to an empty nest

3

dry
leaves
in
the
bowl,
like wings

4

summer turned light into darkness and inside the shadeful shrub the secret worked itself to life

icicles and waterpanes:
recognitions:

at the bottom, knowledges and desertions

5

speech comes out,
a bleached form,
nest-like:

after the events of silence the flying away of silence into speech—

6

    the nest is held
    off-earth

by sticks;

so, intelligence stays out of the ground

erect on a
brittle walk of bones:

otherwise the sea, empty of separations

7

leaves
like wings
in the Nov
ember nest:

wonder where the birds are now that were here:
wonder if the hawks missed them:
wonder if
dry wings
lie abandoned,
bodiless
this
November:

leaves— out of so many
a nestful missed the ground

nov 2/RUN

6.1 miles
hidden falls loop
54 degrees

Sunny and warm! Ran in the afternoon in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. What a view! Running over the ford bridge, I enjoyed looking at the river — almost flat, dark blue, small ripples that made me think, and not for the first time, of fish scales. There wasn’t much wind, just enough to create the fish scale effect. The bluff on the way to hidden falls was open and broad and beautiful — so much air! so far above the valley floor! Near hidden falls I heard some kids’ voices below.

10 Things

  1. running past the new skateboarding park, seeing a group of people skating, hearing some funky music playing from somewhere — a phone?
  2. 2 skateboarders attempting to do tricks on the path
  3. a runner ahead of me in a bright yellowish-green shirt
  4. a fat tire! biking on the bridge
  5. running through wabun, hearing chain links rattle from a frisbee on the frisbee golf course
  6. yesterday I mentioned the stinky mulch on the side of path had been removed — nope, still there, still stinky
  7. my shadow beside me, faint in the afternoon light
  8. a small tree with bright orange leaves
  9. looking far down at the ground, noticing the all the rocks around the bridge
  10. something in a tree that looked like a big owl to me but must have been a balloon or a bag or a dark sweatshirt

nov 1/RUN

5.6 miles
ford loop
40 degrees

I overdressed this morning in a long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, tights and gloves. The sun was warmer than I thought. Most of the leaves are off the trees and on the ground. The ravine near Shadow Falls was a beautiful rusty red. The thin creek running through it shimmered in spots.

It helped to get outside and be beside the gorge. It’s an exhausting time. Both of my kids are supposed to be in college this semester, neither of them are. They are each working on their mental health. It’s hard to see them suffer. On top of that, the impending election is terrifying. While I ran, I forgot about all of this.

10 Things

  1. the bells of St. Thomas tolling twelve times as I crested the Summit hill
  2. 2 small bowls on a neighbor’s front steps, filled with full-sized reese’s peanut butter cups
  3. a man walking a dog listening to talk radio without headphones — I couldn’t tell if it was about politics or sports
  4. water falling softly from shadow falls
  5. the river from lake street bridge: gray, rippled, a shimmering line of light near the east shore
  6. a graffitied port-a-potty with the jar very slightly ajar — was it open, or was the door unable to fully close?
  7. the trees on the west side of the river near locks and dam no. 1 were bare and a fuzzy brown
  8. the sudden start of sirens close by — a fire truck coming up the hill from the locks
  9. the stinky mulch that had been piled on the edge of the path was gone
  10. an opening on the bluff — what a view of the river and the other side!

Yes, That’s When/ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

I like my body when I’m in the woods
and I forget my body. I forget that arms,
that legs, that nose. I forget that waist,

that nerve, that skin. And I aspen. I mountain.
I river. I stone. I leaf. I path. I flower.
I like when I evergreen, current and berry.

I like when I mushroom, avalanche, cliff.
And everything is yes then, and everything
new: wild iris, duff, waterfall, dew.

april 15/RUN

5k
trestle turn around
67 degrees

Ran in the afternoon with Scott. Wore my warm summer attire: black shorts and tank top. Wow. Feels like summer. Tried my new bright yellow running shoes — Saucony Rides. Love the color, but not the fit. My feet and right calf hurt now. Guess these shoes will just be for walking. Oh well.

There was some wind, but mostly it felt refreshing. There was only one stretch where it made running more difficult.

We talked about how the first mile is the hardest, how my shoes weren’t working (poor Scott had to listen to that a lot), and what a badass Helen Obiri is — moderate pace for most of the marathon then unleashing a 4:40 mile near the end.. Then I mentioned an edited version of my birding poem that I’m planning to submit to some journals.

Right before descending below lake street, we encountered another, older runner. I said that I liked his orange shirt and then asked Scott if the shirt was actually orange. It was a gradient, Scott replied. It started orange then magenta then red — at least I think that was the order of colors. Well, I just heard ORANGE in my head, I said. Then: orange shirt
old guy
struggling

Scott pointed out that it was in my running rhythm — 3/2, with an extra 3. Nice.

Random Thoughts Recorded Earlier Today on a version of the wind: air

from Living Here/ Cleopatra Mathis

In the world of appearances, teach me
to believe in the unseen.

from long entry dated 16 august 2022

Of course, appearances refers to more than vision or looking; it’s about “the world of sensible phenomena” (Merriam-Webster). And, to be seen or unseen, can mean much more than what we perceive with our eyes. But how often is appearance/seen reduced to vision and sight? (rhetorical question — my answer: too often or all the time or most of the time).

To appear can mean to be present, to attend, to show up for something.

To believe in the unseen — believing in that which we can’t prove? Believing in something that I know is there but that I cannot see? An orange buoy?
What does it mean to be unseen? To not be seen with our eyes? To not be consciously aware of what some part of us might be seeing or sensing?

belief trust faith confidence acceptance conviction

Mostly, we can sense the wind, or at least see the evidence of it all around us — swaying trees, swirling leaves, flapping flags. But what about air? Air, which we often mis-identify as emptiness?