Back east, I went for a run this morning wearing off flight and letharg of many meals. It felt good to move. In sky, I listened to a sound I love: flight after flight of geese in song, in rise from harbored sanctuary of the open tidal rivers of the shore for day feeding in the fields. Through time of run, song and cadence builds: sharp-distinct of flights above and blended clamor of cycling whorl of fallings into field.
I miss it: the sounds, the sights; scent of pines in line of trail I run, an eastern cultivation that, not fully wild, still retains a settled rural charm.
Not home, but a second of a kind—one from different era and life stage that forever will be special.
I catch a middle-aged forty-year old rest and wind, taking it all in. Shadow specks in gray bay sky, high-pitch of flight in nearing; there, then gone; clamor of a field beyond my view.
Christmas gift in a moment’s presence. Breath caught, I move again—middle-aged pace, nothing to prove—enjoying and loving all.
