Some mornings, the ducks are swimming in thin mirrored slivers of liquid sky and my legs are engines of true progress as the road flies by beneath the rhythm of my feet, moving land, and my lungs, moving air.
Some mornings, the duck are barely floating in field mud and I can’t make it out the door. Early February looks so dark from here. Even my dreams are dim, the force and place obscured by the weight of a cloud wall that lurks behind Blanchard mountain and makes frenetic forays of wind and lashes of rain on the flat valley ground.
In this light, everything – the tree bare the grass clumped the pavement dark and soaking – looks flat and forlorn. When the warm light returns this same tree will beam munificently with fresh green on its limbs and the grass will wave lengthy in the light breeze.
The world the same the world separated by vast differences in perspective. I don’t love it equally, I don’t. I want to – but more I want to be running, always, with the bright glow of something rising. And the ducks in their puddled field, they’ll never say how it seems to them, though we want to believe that it all just rolls off of their downy backs.