Mindful Moment on the Mid-Morning Run

Eleven miles in cold, steady rain. There isn’t a soul on this trail. The cars on the road are making that sound they make on wet tar. I’m wondering if some poet or lonely writer caught in a storm without an umbrella has ever bothered to figure out how to describe that sound, or how many people even care to notice it. Something between the hum of rivulets against the river rocks in some forgotten brook in a quiet forest, and the subtle hush of a seashell held to the ear. Maybe. But not quite. Beyond this, just on the horizon, a break in the clouds reveals an aqua sky, so clear it could be made out of glass. And somewhere else, maybe a mile away, a train horn is warning us all to pay attention. The trains here are always warning us to pay attention. But how often do we?

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About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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