4 miles minnehaha falls 49 degrees wind gusts: 25 mph
Wet. Windy. Slick leaves. Squeaks. A light gray sky. Singing pines. The usual puddles. White foam falls. Gushing sewer pipes. Brisk air. Mud.
Greeted Santa Claus (the regular runner whose long white beard reminds me of Santa Claus). Passed a man walking with one leg up in a boot on a scooter. Gave directions to 2 walkers — which way to the falls? follow the path, it’s over there.
The creek was a steel blue and rushing to reach the limestone ledge. A kid at the main overlook was jumping in a puddle. The green gate at the top of the steps leading down to the falls was still open.
Wore shorts and a pink hooded jacket. My legs were only cold for a few minutes. Too warm for mid-November. Today is the last day of warmer air. Tomorrow, below freezing.
I started working on the section of Haunts poem that I’m titling, And. Came up with a few lines while running north. Recited them in my head until I stopped near the Folwell bench and spoke them into my phone:
Before a Victor- ian’s great love for ventilation, there was water wanting to be something and somewhere else.
The ventilation bit is taken from an article about the origins of the Grand Rounds, and the Victorian is Horace W.S. Cleveland:
The concept of The Grand Rounds was born from Cleveland’s “preference of an extended system of boulevards, or ornamental avenues, rather than a series of detached open areas or public squares.” This was not only an aesthetic consideration: Cleveland had lost many possessions in the 1871 Chicago fire, and saw parkways as an effective firebreak in built-up urban areas. In addition, Cleveland stressed the sanitary benefits derived from parkways. Cholera, typhus, and other diseases plagued cities in the late nineteenth century. Parkways could save land from unhealthy uses and, reflecting the Victorians’ great love for ventilation, carry “winds . . . to the heart of the city, purified by their passage over a long stretch of living water, and through the foliage of miles of forest.”
Moist this morning. Wet sidewalk, wet leaves, wet air. Something was squeaking — my shoes on the leaves or the leaves on my shoes? Only one stone on the boulder, looking lonely and flat. The black stocking cap I mentioned yesterday was still there on the pole. Today I remembered that it was above the old stone steps. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker with a good morning Dave!, greeted Daddy Long Legs with a wave. He was with his walking partner again. Smiled and gave a head nod to another walker who I think I’ve mentioned before. They always wear a long skirt with tights, and most of the year, a blue puffer jacket. They have gray hair in a long braid. I looked it up, and when I wrote about them before (26 jan 2024), I described them as wearing a dress and tentatively named them, All Dressed Up.
Anything else? I’m pretty sure I looked at the river, but I don’t remember what I saw. No fat tires or roller skiers or geese — where are all the geese? — or turkeys. More YELLOW leaves, falling fast. Some sour sewer smells, puddles, empty benches.
I listened to squeaking leaves and thudding feet as I ran north, then my Color playlist returning south: “Not Easy Bein’ Green,” “Roxanne,” “Mellow Yellow,” and “Let’s Go Crazy.” Speakig of color, I discovered this excellent color poem yesterday afternoon:
There’s a rumor of light that any dark starts off as. Plato speaks here and there of colors, but only once, I think, does he break them down into black and white, red, and a fourth color. By then they’d reached for California high country where, knowing none of the names for all the things that grew there, they
began to make names up. But to have trained an animal to come just a bit closer because here, here’s blood, doesn’t mean you’ve tamed it. Trans- lations vary for what Plato calls his fourth color: what comes closest to a combination of (since they aren’t the same) radiant and bright–what shifting water does,
with light? Violence burnishes the body, sometimes, though we call it damage, not burnishing, more its opposite, a kind of darkness, as if to hide the body, so that what’s been
done to it might, too, stay hidden, the way meaning can, for years, until some pattern by which to trace it at last emerges. There’s a rumor of light.
I need to give more time to this poem; there’s so much I don’t quite get. But I love the discussion of Plato and color and what shifting water does to light.
5.8 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 69 degrees / humidity: 84%
More progress! Running a little longer before stopping to walk, then running a little longer before stopping again. Increased my distance and time on my feet too. Step by small step I’ll get there.
Almost 9 am on Saturday morning. As I warmed up with a walk, it was quiet, calm. No cars or kids or other adults around. Just birds and my footsteps on the sidewalk. Ah, I love summer mornings!
During the run: hot, humid, lots of sweat. Greeted the Welcoming Oaks. Passed a group of runners in the tunnel of trees — good morning! Noticed an orange water station set up at the top of lake street, above the rowing club. Chanted triple berries — strawberry/raspberry/blueberry. Someone running up the hill turn around in front of me and descended again — hill repeats? Some bikers bombed down the franklin hill, others crawled up it. No rowers. The surface of the river seemed to have an oily skin on it. No foam or waves. Two runners passed me, one of them talking about his sister’s upcoming wedding. Waved at a regular runner, the white-bearded Mr. Santa Claus. At the bottom of the hill, two men fished in the river. Did they catch anything?
image: an older man running in BRIGHT blue shorts and matching long socks. As blue as a cloudless sky.
For the first half of the run, I listened to the quiet. Walking up the hill, I put in some music: Beyoncé’s “Cowboy Carter” and then the movie soundtrack to “The Wiz.”
So hot and humid this morning! Decided to go for a run before the storm arrived. Ran around the neighborhood just in case it started pouring or thundering. It didn’t and still hasn’t even though the forecast said there was 100% chance. Strange weather this summer. So many expected storms not happening, so many unexpected storms happening.
Greeted Mr. Holiday, a regular — good morning! He replied, Morning! It’s so humid out here! I agreed. Noticed the street one block over closed for tree work then saw a very tall crane halfway down the street. No tree dangling from its claw yet. Heard water gushing at the ravine. Did it rain overnight? Felt relaxed and strong and not too warm at first. A little overheated later.
Earlier this morning, watched Courtney Dauwalter win the ultramarathon, Hardrock 100. She’s amazing. Also saw one of my favorite cyclists, Lotte Kopecky gain 2 more seconds in the Giro D’Italia. She’s only 1 second behind Longo Bourghini heading into tomorrow’s final stage!
wildlifeupdate: It’s been a busy summer in our yard. Distraught sparrows, wild turkeys on the fence, dead bunnies, bats hiding in umbrellas, and now a big ass wasp nest perched on one of the highest branches of our crab apple tree. Yikes! RJP noticed it yesterday. Time to call in the experts!
I’m still reading Heidi Julavits, The Folded Clock. I love her sense of humor and enjoyed her thoughts on being afraid to swim alone because of sharks:
I am scared to swim alone not because I might drown but because I might be attacked by a shark. Mine is an unwarranted phobia (shared by basically every person in my generation, i.e., those of us who grew up with Jaws); companionship is an illogical cure. To date, there have been no shark attacks in our harbor. Should a shark, against all statistics, appear, a friend (unless he or she is swimming with a machine gun) will be unable to save me from it. But I feel safe in knowing—before I am pulled underwater to my death by an animal, I can share a final what the fuck? moment with a sympathetic human.
Late morning felt hot today. Bright sun, not much shade. The river road was closed off for the annual Walk MS charity event so I ran on the dirt/mud trail between it and edmund. Listened to my “I’m Shadowing You” playlist for the whole run:
(skipped Shadow Song/Screaming Trees, Shadows and Light/ Joni Mitchell) Silver Shadow/ Atlantic Starr Total Eclipse of the Heart/ Bonnie Tyler Help Me Make It Through the Night/ Kris Kristofferson Sunshine in the Shade/ The Fixx The Shadow of Your Smile/ Astrud Gilberto Evening/ The Moody Blues White Room/ Cream
I wondered what a silver shadow might look like, then I wanted to see one. The silver outline of the sun behind the clouds? My shadow on the blue-white snow? I know — it’s Eamon Grennan’s birdsong in his poem, Lark-Luster:
. . . when summer happens, you’d almost see the long silver ribbons of song the bird braids as if binding lit air to earth that is all shadows, to keep us (as we walk our grounded passages down here) alive to what is over our heads—song and silence—and the lot of us leaning up: mind-defeated again, just harking to it.
Then I got distracted by mud and people and the sun and didn’t give close attention to the lyrics for the next three songs, only briefly registering that Bonnie Tyler was singing to someone whose love is like a shadow on her, keeping her in the dark; Kris Kristofferson was comparing someone’s hair “laying soft upon his skin” to the shadows on the wall; and The Fixx were declaring that they were the sunshine in the shade of life.
Off the grass, back on the road, I thought about Astrud Gilberto’s affection for the shadow of a smile — was the shadow cast by a very bright smile? Looking at the lyrics now, I understand the shadow to be the wonderful (but haunted?) memory of a love that didn’t last.
I am really digging The Moody Blues, “Evening.” That flute! Shadows on the ground/never make a sound/fading away in the sunset/Night has now become/Day for everyone
I thought about the white curtains in Marie Howe’s dark room instead of Cream’s black curtains in a white room. where the shadows run from themselves.
This is fun! I like thinking about silver shadows as birdsong, and shadows softly caressing the wall, and what it would be like to see shadows running from themselves.
Near the end of “Shadow of Your Smile,” I saw something ahead of me, in the middle of the road. A big black dog? No — it’s that menacing turkey again! The one I wrote about on april 30th and april 11th. Just standing there in the middle of the road, his feather fanned out. This time I didn’t turn around, but walked by him, at a safe distance. I also took a picture:
RJP has named this big turkey Jon.
Zooming in, I see a brave person on the sidewalk, nearing Jon.
Recounting the story to Scott when I returned home, I decided that I wanted to imagine this turkey as a friend, not an enemy — or a frenemy? I also began to believe that he’s trying to tell me something: write about ME! And I will. Well, I already wrote one poem:
Unsettled
by noise
I stop to witness
a dark shape draw near
too big for
a squirrel
too small for a bear.
The moment suspends
unresolved until
the shape turns — pale beak
red wattle framed by
tail feathers. This Tom
wants trouble.
What if this turkey is my shadow-self? Will he be around for my next run? I guess it’s the spring of the turkey — maybe the summer, too? I will add Jon — I might name him myself if he appear again — to my list of Regulars!
Inspired by another turkey sighting, and deciding that I will embrace these visits, here’s another amazing poem from Diane Seuss’s Sill Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl:
The turkey’s strung up by one pronged foot, the cord binding it just below the stiff trinity of toes, each with its cold bent claw. My eyes
are in love with it as they are in love with all dead things that cannot escape being looked at. It is there to be seen if I want to see it, as my
father was there in his black casket and could not elude your gaze. I was a child so they asked if I wanted to see him. “Do you want to see him?”
someone asked. Was it my mother? Grandmother? Some poor woman was stuck with the job. “He doesn’t look like himself,” whoever-it-was
added. “They did something strange with his mouth.” As I write this, a large moth flutters against the window. It presses its fat thorax to the glass.
“No,” I said, “I don’t want to see him.” I don’t recall if I secretly wanted them to open the box for me but thought that “no” was the correct response,
or if I believed I should want to see him but was too afraid of what they’d done with his mouth. I think I assumed that my seeing him would
make things worse for my mother, and she was all I had. Now I can’t get enough of seeing, as if I’m paying a sort of penance for not seeing then, and so
this turkey, hanged, its small, raw-looking head, which reminds me of the first fully naked man I ever saw, when I was a candy striper
at a sort of nursing home, he was a war veteran, young, burbling crazily, his face and body red as something scalded. I didn’t want to see,
and yet I saw. But the turkey, I am in love with it, its saggy neck folds, the rippling, variegated feathers, the crook of its unbound foot,
and the glorious wings, archangelic, spread as if it could take flight, but down, down ward, into the earth.
2.1 miles river road, north/dorman/loons coffee 37 degrees / humidity: 90%
Ran with Scott up the river road and over to a coffee place. The air was so thick with moisture, which made it harder to breathe. Otherwise a good run. We talked about The Muppet Movie, which we watched last night, and how it didn’t dumb down (or try to purify) the characters or their relationships. Then I rambled on for a few minutes about what a rich, messy character Miss Piggy was and how there was such a variety of representations of love within the movie.
10+ Things
encountered and greeted a woman in a bright red jacket, almost the same color as Scott’s
passed a woman in a blue jacket — she’s a Regular that I should name. I see her often. The thing I remember most is that she’s always wearing a long skirt or dress. In the winter, she also wears a ski jacket and tights, in the summer just the dress. I’m not sure what to call her — all dressed up?
near the tunnel of trees the river is still white
everyone else the river is open — a deep dark gray
heard some cardinals, at least one black-capped chickadee
the ghost bike — June’s bike — at the trestle was wreathed in dried flowers
the ravine, between the 35th and 36th street parking lots had an open view and was only half covered in snow
4 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
bright orange striped barrel blocking the way down the old stone steps
a lone black glove, looking forlorn on the biking path
a SUV honking unnecessarily and repeatedly at a pedestrian near Minnehaha Academy
Here’s a poem I don’t want to forget by Jane Hirshfield:
Many capacities have been thought to define the human— yet finches and wasps use tools; speech comes into this world in many forms. Perhaps it is you, Opinion.
Though I cannot know for certain, I doubt the singing dolphins have opinions.
This thought of course, is you.
A mosquito’s estimation of her meal, however subtle, is not an opinion. That’s my opinion, too.
To think about you is to step into your arms? a thicket? pitfall?
When you come rising strongly in me, I feel myself grow separate and more lonely. Even when others share you, this is so.
Darwin said no fact or description that fails to support an argument can serve.
Myoe wrote: Bright, bright, bright, bright, the moon.
Last night there were whole minutes when you released me. Ocean ocean ocean was the sound the sand made of the moonlit waves breaking on it.
I felt no argument with any part of my life.
Not even with you, Opinion, who drifted in salt waters with the bullwhip kelp and phosphorescent plankton, nibbling my legs and ribcage to remind me where Others end and I begin.
Cool. Wore my pink jacket this morning. Thick air. Fall is here. The Welcoming Oaks are starting to turn golden. Everywhere, the feeling of soft yellow. We ran north on the river road trail. I was on the outside and was nearly hit a few times by bikers speeding by without warning. Oh well. I’ll try to remember the kind bikers I encountered on Saturday and forget today’s jerks.
Saw one of my running regulars, Santa Claus! Also, as we ran through the tunnel of trees, I recounted to Scott the time I noticed some guy silently sitting in a tree. What was he doing? added an hour later: I just realized that this strange tree sitting happened on september 11, 2019. I can’t remember what we talked about, and I forgot to look down at the river.
10 Things
several stacked stones on the ancient boulder
the port-a-potty is back near the overlook
slippery trail, a few squeaking leaves
burnt toast or burnt coffee bean smell near the Lake Street bridge
passing a fast walker on the inside near the trestle
encountering a runner almost sprinting on the greenway
a duet of chainsaws in the gorge below, probably cutting up the giant tree that we noticed on the ground last Sunday on our hike
yellow vests at Brackett Park — park workers mowing the lawn?
clashing colors: a pale green bench next to a pale blue church
after finishing, walking to Dogwood, passing a welcome mat with thick stripes of black and white
Since we’re driving FWA back to school on Saturday, Scott and I decided to do our weekly run today instead. We ran (most of) the Franklin loop. A beautiful morning: cool, sunny but with plenty of shade, calm. At one point the wind picked up and I had to recite one of my favorite wind poems, “Who Has Seen the Wind?” by Christina Rossetti.
Fall is coming: discarded acorn shells, glowing leaves, the light seems longer and softer, maybe a bit sadder too?
10 Things
empty river — no rowers or kayaks or big paddle boats playing dixieland jazz
3 or 4 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
waved at the woman who stopped me the other day to tell me about some other runner who had my same gait. I think she wanted us to go on a date — she kept telling me how cute he was. A new regular? I’ll call her, the Fixer Upper — talking with Scott, we agreed that Fixer Upper sounded like she needed to be fixed up, which is not true at all, so I guess I’ll call her the Setter Upper
the porta potty by the overlook has been removed. Why? I bet the people living in tents down in the gorge really needed it
the cracks in the path just past the trestle are growing wider and deeper. Is the bluff becoming too unstable? Will they need to abandon this part of the path?
a steady stream of cars on the road — no soft moments when all I can hear are my footfalls and my breath
the east river road just south of franklin is in terrible condition — so many potholes!
played a game with Scott — was that noise down in the east flats wind or water? I said water, he said wind. I think he was right; it hasn’t rained for a while
another game — what is that loud, strangled cry? Knowing I was being ridiculous I guessed, a giant gobbling turkey. Scott thought it was a man yelling. We were both wrong; it was a dog barking
crossing back over the lake street bridge: shadows of trees on the river near the shore, soft ripples from the wind
the day made
Walking back through the neighborhood, we encountered a pair of dogs that I had run by earlier in the summer (june 10, 2023) and always hoped to see again. 2 tiny dogs, barking with little yips and snorts, especially the larger one. Scott thought the smaller one — a minpin chihuahua mix? — was so small that it could have escaped through the bars of the fence if it wanted too. It didn’t. Of course, I cried out in delight when I saw them. I might have even clapped. Scott started laughing and then imitating the yip snort whenever I asked. Would I love these dogs as much if I had to live next to them? Maybe not, or maybe I’d love them even more.
Earlier this morning, prepping for my class, I was thinking about being open to the world, letting it interrupt you. These dogs were wonderful interrupters. That glorious bark, those cute, impossibly tiny bodies! Before we saw them, we were tense — Scott needed to hurry home to fix a server, but when they suddenly appeared, everything else was forgotten. It was just those dogs and that moment of sound and blurry little bodies.
I’ve written about frantic dogs barks before (and how much I like them). A few years back, I also posted a poem that included some yippy yappy dogs.
Which leads me to recall the three Chihuahuas who’ve spent the fullness of their agitated lives penned in the back of my neighbor’s yard. Today they barked continuously for 12 minutes (I timed it) as the UPS guy made his daily round. They bark so piercingly, they tremble with such exquisite outrage, that I’ve begun to root for them, though it’s fashionable to hate them and increasingly dark threats against their tiny persons move between the houses on our block. But isn’t that what’s wrong with this version of America: the jittering, small-skulled, inbred-by-no-choice- of-their-own are despised? And Bill Parcells— the truth is he’ll win this game. I know it and you know it and, sadly, did it ever seem there was another possible outcome?
It’s a small deposit, but I’m putting my faith in reincarnation. I need to believe in the sweetness of one righteous image, in Bill Parcells trapped in the body of a teacup poodle, as any despised thing, forced to yap away his next life staked to a clothesline pole or doing hard time on a rich old matron’s lap, dyed lilac to match her outfit. I want to live there someday, across that street, and listen to him. Yap, yap, yap.
The temperature isn’t that high, but the humidity and dew point are. Now, having finished my run, sitting on my deck, I’m dripping sweat while the trees drip rain from yesterday’s showers. Reminds me of a poem I just memorized, “The Social Life of Water” — All water is a part of other water and All water understands and Puddle has a long conversation with lake about fjord. A line to add? Sweat sings a duet with tree while deck listens.
oh no! Still sitting under the tree, the wind suddenly picked up and it began to rain drips all over my keyboard.
A good run. My left hip felt a little sore or tight. Listened to dropping acorns for most of the run, then put in a playlist for the last mile.
10 Things
Mr. Morning! called out good morning! from across the road — he was on the river road trail, I was running on Edmund. Good morning! I called back
the bright headlights of a truck parked on the wrong side of the street
most of the dirt path was wet, a few parts were muddy, but one stretch was loose, dry sand — how had it avoided the rain? was it sheltered by a big tree?
the river was white through the trees. It waved to me in the wind
the coxswains’ voices — first, a deep one, then a higher-pitched one — drifted up from the river. I tried to find the boats, but I couldn’t — less about my bad vision, more about all the green blocking my view
brushing my elbow against some leaves on the side of the trail — wet, cold, refreshing
a chattering of sparrow lifted from a lawn as I ran by
another regular — the woman with shoulder-length hair who walks and always wears a short sporty skirt with sandals. This might be the first time I’ve seen her this summer
a minneapolis parks riding lawnmower hauling ass on the bike path — wow, those vehicles can go fast!
almost forgot — acorns! thumping the ground every few seconds, littering the trail, some intact others already ravaged by squirrels, crunching under car wheels
The early signs of late summer / coming fall are here: dropping acorns and the dull din of non-stop cricket chirps.
5 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 65 degrees
What a wonderful morning to be outside! Cooler, sunny, calm.
My new morning routine is to get up, feed the dog, make my coffee, and then sit outside on my deck. Sitting there, I noticed a few birds swooping down from our new gutters. Uh oh — they’re trying to build a nest.
I felt pretty good on my run. Relaxed for the first few miles. Running down the hill, my left hip felt a little tight. Not too bad. Last night, Scott and I talked about signing up for the Oct 2024 marathon, for our 50 birthdays. Can my knees and hips handle it?
Listened to birds, acorns falling from the trees, kids calling out for Dairy Queen for the first half of the run. Put in headphones and listened to “Camelot” on the way back.
At the bottom of the franklin hill, I turned around. As I walked back up the hill, I recorded a few moments from the run:
moment one
Running through the tunnel of trees a few minutes ago a wonderful silence no cars I could hear myself breathing everything still no wind. I was mostly in the moment although every so often a wonder about when a car would come and break the silence cut into my calm.
moment two
approaching the trestle I heard some kids yelling, yeah! dairy queen! another camp group a dozen kids in bright yellow vests as they biked past me one of them chanted, dairy queen! dairy queen!
moment three
as spoke about moment two into my phone a runner passed me looking relaxed graceful his legs rhythmically bobbing up and down mesmerizing
10 Things
a still river
a black shirt dropped near the porta potty
one acorn dropping to the ground from a tree, thud
another acorn being crushed by a bike wheel, crunch!
2 roller skiers, or the same roller skier encountered twice
the Welcoming Oaks wondering where I’ve been
a person asleep under the bridge
a regular — Santa Claus
another regular — Mr. Morning!
a woman ahead of me, a dark shirt strung through the strap of her tank top, flapping as she ran
On this last day of July, a month about water, I want to include this passage from Roger Deakin’s Waterlog:
The following afternoon, under a blue sky fringed white with distant clouds on the horizon, four of us swam in 360 feet of turquoise water in a sheer-sided quarry on Belnahua. The island encricled a huge natural swimming pool, raised above sea level, whose waters were so utterly transparent that when we swam, we saw our shadows far down, swimming ahead of us along the bottom. All around, only yards away, was the deeper blue of the open sea, and the Hebrides: Fladda, Scarba, Jura, Lunga, the Garvellachs (the ‘Islands of the sea’, St. Coumba’s favourite place), Luing, Mull and Colonsay. The light and the skies kept changing all afternoon: from bright blue with distant dazzling clouds to deepening red and gold. Diving from the rocks into the immensely deep, clear, brackish water, intensified the giddy feeling of aquatic flying.
Waterlog / Roger Deakin (237)
I would love to swim here (or near here)– some day in my 50s, I hope. Last week I mentioned possibly seeing my shadow in the water, but barely because the water in the lake is opaque. I remember seeing (and writing about) my shadow in the pool last winter, how it felt like I was flying above the deep end. I love the idea of aquatic flying and the rare times I feel like I’m actually doing it.
swim: 2 loops (4 cedar loops) cedar lake open swim 83 degrees
Always grateful for another swim. Was able to swim on course, even without the buoys. My calves felt a little strange, my nose was a bit stuffed up, but otherwise, a great swim.
Instead of listing 10 things I noticed, here’s the coolest thing of the night: the vegetation stretching up from the bottom of the lake. How tall is it, I wonder? On the last loop, rounding the far orange buoy at Hidden Beach, I swam parallel to the beach, right above the vegetation — is it milfoile? Whatever it is, it’s wonderfully creepy — a pale green, ghostly, reaching up toward the light or my torso. So much of it! When I have more time, I do a little more research about these plants, and try to describe them more too.
