Kind of limping along,
Figuratively and literally,
Basketball being the literal culprit,
Motivation the figurehead of the former.
Today, frustration took over,
Putting a cranky back to the side,
Refusing to let a beautiful day
Be wasted inside.
With snow, ice, or rain on the way,
It seemed prudent to hit the trails today,
White Clay Creek called,
A slow run, the kind where squirrels scavenging
Can be heard.
So slow, breath barely
Causing a fog.
It was great,
Softly running over crushed leaves,
Noticing the rocks, the roots, and
A new beaver dam.
This was the kind of run I’ve been missing,
No pace, no distance,
Just slow, under a rising sun,
Touched by the crisp air.
Tomorrow when the rain or ice comes,
I’ll be inside, hoping to breathe while swimming laps.
I’m sure I’ll be thinking about this run, too,
For it sure was beautiful.