Snow today. An onion snow, the old folks call it, beads of freezer frost on the green shoots, and whitening Blue, the black dog.
It comes as no surprise. Mid-April is the opening of trout season in Pennsylvania, and there's usually ice on the line and snow flakes vanishing into the creek.
It feels natural, weather as it should be. Good weather to run in, to fire up your own furnace and blend with the elements. It's uplifting to finish your route and stand steaming in the onion snow.
My route is the dirt road I live on, a perfect 5K from one end to the other and back to the house. I have always been drawn to the gates along the way; farm roads pull me in. I take my time, enjoying the scenery, the same scenery as yesterday, but changed, and always something new.
Be blown on by all winds, Thoreau wrote. So I ran, and I cooled down, and I belonged on the earth, sure of my place.
My route is the dirt road I live on, a perfect 5K from one end to the other and back to the house. I have always been drawn to the gates along the way; farm roads pull me in. I take my time, enjoying the scenery, the same scenery as yesterday, but changed, and always something new.
Be blown on by all winds, Thoreau wrote. So I ran, and I cooled down, and I belonged on the earth, sure of my place.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
