The Run Date Friday, April 26, 2024 - 09:06 AM PST Topic Experiences All people have had one; there's districts and blocks and places all over the world where people do the run. It's heritage as much as survival, a part of our shared cultural experience as a species. And I still do the run. Late at night in winter is an amazing time; in the darkness of a cloudy night with just enough light splitting between trees to see breathe take form int he air and dance away into invisibility in an upward curl. In the fresh powder my feet crackle and are alive; each heavy step creates a crumpling noise that has become delightful to listen to, in the silence of the night. The atmosphere is so tight and close, and with so little noise it feels invigorating. I feel wolf, and coyote, and deer. Bird is watching from a tree; quiet. Squirrel is in some small winter burrow; slightly asleep now in the dead of the frozen. But wolf and deer are in me and all around, chasing and dancing in a constant hunt around me and through me and in me. I stop for a moment, and, in that moment, the senses of the predatory and prey are alive, listening, watching, sniffing and feeling with all seven senses. Listening for what might not be, primal paranoia. And then, I run. I grew up as a runner. It's the purest of sports, simple, elegant, and utilitarian. The runner figure is lithe and elegant, yet still one of the most useful. Running in the snow is a special skill, especially through woodlands and up creekbeds and unsure territory. The world is smooth, but the ground can be sharp and treacherous. Passing trees and watching spaces and light and shadow, waiting for something, while moving away from it as fast as possible. Finally, up the stairs, a disenchantment after moving at full stride through normal ground. Stairs are the cool-down, re-entering human modes of thought and human movements. And opening the door, and stepping in to warmth, and light, and love for the lucky and solitude for those who worship a different kind of luck. Children sometimes run in the city when it's dark, down the blocks that their parents tell them not to go down as a shortcut. A thrill in rebellion and danger and taboo, while each of those emotions only exist in ignorance or hatred from both sides of the equation. In the burbs, sometimes, the area between streetlights can feel like jumping from cloud to cloud, past fences of dark cold iron and apathetic dogs and stray cats. In the morning clouds streak the skies, made brilliant orange by rays of light that yet haven't breached the great walls that frame the cavernous bubble of the sky and cascaded down the walls and run across the ground and make things light. For a while in that firey sky, I can still feel the night, and see where I ran. Deep footsteps in the snow, hazardously drug along. The point where I stopped, and looked around, and listened. It's still silent out, and a blue jay flutters to a bird-feeder on the porch. Some delicate chatter from them to their comrades, and each wing flap you can hear in clear and perfect detail. Breath coils upward, mugs steam and eyes slightly blurry from sleep are half-open and quiet. Sometimes, when I wake and look out at my tracks, I can see the tracks of what was watching me. I still feel alive. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=452