Winter Running
I am not resigned to staying in my cozy house in the cool winter months.
Paved streets, trails, red rock canyons or black lava rock, call my name, await my arrival.
Steady climb and a variety of sights, volcanic rock so dense.
Red dirt and the wild smell of rosemary fragrant from the night's rain.
The freedom, the euphoria, the peace, the runner's high--
To conquer, to cry, to commiserate with, to laugh.
This 3, 5, 8 miles: the hill, the injury, the wind.
In one direction I see the seventh hole on a golf course, ruddy brown.
Another, the palm tree dotted streets. Or farther on, red sandstone cliffs.
The cacti, the yucca plant, blue sky through clouds.
And twice, the orange-gold-black tarantula, with its slow shift.
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| Golf course on the left and the farmer's field |
The exhilaration, the pesky hamstring, as the golden sun glistens
on the dew rock as we run up the mountain. Cold hands,
the howling gap in the sandstone. Bikers pass. Hikers with dogs.
The deep camaraderie, nod of the head, the hello's, the good mornings.
We pass the rock climbers, hear a bell of a bike, stumble a time or two.
Running requires conquering fears, requires trust. The group text the night before...
This is it. The red rocky landscape. The beauty, the focus, the friends.
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| Rock Climbers |
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| Cairn |
