icicles on the boulder, Nov 2013

this morning was spitting and blustery upon stepping out in shorts, cap 1, and hoodless nylon. I cranked the mantras loud and ran persistently uphill. the first three miles brought intensely increasing deluge and wind until it crescendoed and kept tossing in its peak. I moved through the birch stands listening to trees and large limbs crack to the forest floor as I went thinking "this is a squall, it will lessen before I descend," picked efficiently through the rooted rollies rejoicing in the pocket lakes my feet displaced and noting how my pace developed since first scouting these dark morning runs alone last winter--thanked my legs. 

then, as I rounded the old clay pit and bared myself on the precipice ridge that falls toward Squak, the wind gusted with extra force and the birches listed against a greying sky. I felt momentarily trapped and stopped running; turned my headlamp off and assessed the situation. no further assessment necessary than stopping and realizing that I was just as likely to be struck by a falling rotted birch while joyfully bounding through the storm as I was stopped, petrified, with my light out. 

the sun doesn't rise this time of year more than it glows in varying shades of this putrid purple, indicating an indistinct horizon and suggesting day. I ran so fast on the descent that my knees were smoking as the mud dropped off my legs in the shower. thanked everything on my walk to work. my hands are still cold.

written nov 2012

Comment