The Poetry of Running

The soft crunch of autumn was underfoot as I made my way down the gravel drive. The air, unseasonably warm. Humid. Early morning affords a thoughtful quiet. Nature has lured me out the door most mornings for nearly the entirety of my life. A dedication to placing one foot after the other…

Slowly I trotted. The downhill slope of the winding drive begged for childlike behavior. Freedom with each footfall. I leaned into the moment…

To the left I decided. Keeping the mile hill climb for another day. I wanted to go longer today. Along the road I began to sink into my effort, I listened to the brook running hard. Tripping over river rocks and boulders. The banks now covered with fallen leaves and toppled trees. A golden hue blanketed the woods. The flora and fauna of a changing landscape. A certainty. Comforted I was…

Yips and howls cut across the still air. Coyotes in the distance. Dogs barked in alarm. Near or far I wondered. Unsure, I decided far. Continue I did…

Fog thick and heavy. Hovered close to the earth. Dreamily tangible. Muted colors lined the hilltops. A Blue Heron navigated the sky just overhead. Mighty it soared. Prehistoric looking as it lumbered gracefully through the mist. A pick-up truck passed, and I was quickly brought back to reality. The run home boasted a cool reassuring breeze. Hopeful a change of season will soon be upon us…

“There is something magical about running; after a certain distance, it transcends the body. Then a bit further, it transcends the mind. A bit further yet, and what you have before you, laid bare, is the soul.” –Kristin Armstrong