I am running through hills of upstate New York farmland. The dark and pre-dawn skies are filled mostly with quietness and the sound of my feet slapping the road. The evening sounds are there as well, but you learn not to hear them after a while.
The air is warm and the ash gray road feels like day old embers against my bare feet. The pale, slow-moving clouds slow time as I run.
Then come voices of old friends in the dark, talking to their children on front porches in the early morning hours before responsibility sets in. For a moment I stop and thank them for motivating me, trying I suppose to reforge old friendships or simply experience again acquaintances that once were. But the visits don’t last long. It becomes quickly apparent—photos on the wall, a note on the table, someone unexpected walks in the room—that their lives are different now. So I turn back to the road.
I’m looking down at that ash gray road when the sky explodes with sunrise. The golden honey sunlight pours slow and sticky down the charcoal twilight. My reflex grabs for a camera, but I’m without one, so I just laugh out loud. I guess this one’s for me alone.
