This morning it was 50 degrees out and I went for a slow run on the trails around our house. The days are past when the leaves fall like rain but a few were still dropping and a thick layer of them crackled under foot with each step. Against the gray sky, their reds and yellows blazed. There never was a more picturesque fall day.
By afternoon, the temperature had plummeted, and the rain fell half-frozen. By tomorrow, there will be snow. A lot, they say. It sounds incongruous but I knew of it already by the way the sharp winds cut across me in the morning here and there. In the warm breeze there was a current of a different season sneaking in already.
The moment you step out of doors, the world begins to speak to you. It strikes up a conversation with you about itself. It tells you what it did yesterday and what it wants to do tomorrow. And it asks after you too. It notices how you carry yourself, how you move upon the ground, the way your shoulders respond to the wind. The world wants to know you and to be known by you. It wishes for you to linger.
The older I get, the simpler I want to become. I want these easy conversations, this lack of complication. I want it today and tomorrow, too.
