Day 328

Water Tree.

Cold and blustery day.  She runs through the wind, sometimes against it, her hair blowing out from the sides of her head, other times with it, buffered along like a little boat before the gale. 

In the dry and rustling meadow she meets the flock of dark-eyed juncoes, which don't fly from her, rather flash from behind, flitting over her head and into the trees at the edge of Heartbreak Hill. 

She revels in the cold, which burns her bare arms to a rosy hue.  Chickadees sing happily, they seem to share her blithe spirits today.  In the forest the trees sway and weave, talking with their soft gravelly voices, like old men sitting on the stoep.

As she enters the meadow, what may have been a sharp-shinned hawk, which had been gliding the gusts just above the trees, suddenly takes off with both wings beating, and she observes with wonder a white contrail, like that of an aeroplane, as it defecates into the wind!

She flies down Babbling Brook hill, exhilarated, against the strong wind, which pushes generously at her back on the uphill slog, and attempts to herd her, along with hundreds of whirring, whispering leaves.  Her will is stronger though, and she eludes the wind, laughing in its face.

She and Molly run and run, 6.10 km, at 7.50 minutes per km, the same time as yesterday, although it felt much easier today, but it was at least an extra km.

And such is her mood that even when she suddenly has that terrible feeling, when your foot encounters something soft and squishy, which sticks to it like a little ugly cushion, she blames the neighbour's dog, deals with it, and carries on running.

It is a day for reveling, in the fact that the dam is full again, in the observation that the bees are eating the sugar syrup she has put out for them, in the wonder that easing into a hot lavender foam bath must be one of the most luscious sensations there are, in the sudden empathy with her black dog, whose legs look as though they feel as stiff as hers when she gets up from a sitting position, in the excitement that it is Thanksgiving tomorrow, which is a lovely holiday.

The Black Dog, several attempts at drawing her, but she would not keep still.  She kept on getting too hot by lying too close to the fire, then too cold and getting up again to move closer.