First Run
By RON SHEVOCK

What was that? Something pleasant, something green? The change beckons me out of the office at sunset to the winding singletrack—my first run of the season. It rained most of the day, soft, warm showers now faded to refrains of small-mouthed splats. Spring is walking, though shaky and dizzy on her new toddler legs.

I gently stretch beside the car feeling gaps in the air where snowflakes once fell. I already miss winter's cold caress. Its waning, chilly hands gust across my shell and I shiver. My face blushes and the customs of my heart pump skyward. It hits me: I'm poles apart from that "first run" only months ago.

The rain-padded trail does feel good as I jog comfortably. The damp spring dirt is as dark and stimulating as freshly ground coffee, soft and loamy beneath sinewy oaks and pines. Dried cones and old acorns litter the margins of the trail: remnants and reminders of seasonal struggles, dissolving seasons, continual revolutions, recurring cycles. Storm cycles—

...Early March: 62" in three days on top of 24" in two. A biblical deluge blesses the mountain. I skin up its windswept nave and over the Eastern ridge, the iconostasis before the sanctuary. The cups haven't overflowed, they're completely buried! The congregation follows, nipping at my heels, thirsty. Bloodthirsty. No time to convene with the flock. I drop in—let the choir sing my graces—as I humbly reach for this Eucharist with welcoming arms and fast, broad swoops...

When did I start sprinting? I'm racing uphill full-tilt, racing to some absolution for the passing winter. I try to slow but instead I trip, skid, and roll to a stop covered in sweat and dust. My breathing breaks. My eyelids crumple. My sweat freezes. I recognize the familiar scent of snow. It's still here along the trail, melting into memory. I close my eyes and idle my mind.

Spring will soon beat its wings past winter, and those snowy days will settle as wool-wrapped memories, Sunday slow, into my bones.

                                                                                          prev | next