My descent into the valley pushes the air past my arms, legs, and face. The metronome that is my pace and breath quickens, then settles. My arms swing, not effortlessly, but at least intentionally. The ground is moist from an early spring snow, and soft. The last flakes fall onto my shoulders. I scramble from rock to root avoiding the suction of the mud. The contours of the trail rise and fall, timidly at first, before it intends on challenging my body, shortly.
On ascents, I straighten my back, push my hips forward and align my posture to the ground. My eyes move from hazard to obstacle sending warnings and advisement to my legs. My thinking migrates away from the initial exhilaration of my run and reverts to the created concerns of the day. But they’re just thoughts.
I return to my run considering the livability of what we now call the natural world; how it inspires achievement, progression, and thoroughness. How it will take advantage of the mistakes we make but reward us with a sparkling, if only momentarily, vision of clarity and purpose.