I ran yesterday, on the bike path, at lunch. I
am a stumbling, inconsistent runner, but the climate inside the office drove me out into the rain and green
leaves. The spring air chilled me.
It hurts to run. A fire
starts in your throat and lungs, your skull feels too small. Every false
landing sends a shriek into your knees and ankles. Cramps start as
cinders in your shoulders and abdomen, and then flare hotter with every
inhalation. The rain is cold and green.
I reached the highway
bridge, a gorge carved by dynamite and filled with the rush and ebb of
exhaust, rubber, glass, stained by graffitti. I stood on the bridge to watch for a moment, then I turned back.
after the bridge, in a puddle, I saw a flash of blue. I palmed the empty eggshell and carried it until a suitable
shrine revealed itself to me. Near the end of the path, a large fir
stood, hollowed by rot after loss of limb. I piled dandelions into the
knot-hole and nestled the eggshell into the center. I walked back to
When I returned today, the flowers had wilted, but the egg was gone.