A mid-Saturday run on a cold, radiant, bluebird January day. I run on the road, facing oncoming cars, and jump the slick ice on the road’s edge as each one approaches, tap-dancing onto the crusty snow that offers enough traction to keep my feet from going out from underneath. It’s a great counterpoint to the limited range of motion of a fairer-weather run, random sidesteps to keep the legs and hips guessing, and opportunities to get the knees pumping just a little higher than my typical loping gait.
The bare trees show their skeletal genius – how they’ve grown and spread to fill the volume they’ve been allotted by chance of location, and the limits of gravity and capillary sap transmission, maximizing exposure for their leaves.
Down the hill to the frozen lake, the middle one of Three Lakes, a single ice-fisherman spending his noontime as Dad would have, occasionally adding another bluegill or perch to the bucket on the ice. I wonder if he’s enjoying the sun, or would prefer more overcast — it’s pretty bright out there surrounded by all that reflection. I reflect on how we’re two people, each alone, each drawn to the water for our own recreations.
Back up the hill again and home. Radiant blue, cold breeze, matched rhythm of breath and footfalls, breath-moisture condensed on beard, and the prana of warm energy circulating.