On the path, the leaves fall in my line of sight only to be crushed under my shoes, swirling yellow and red in the wind, forgotten and blown to the side by the passing cars or lying split apart, wedging themselves in between the treads of my soles. The leaves fade to black and brown—almost gray—earth’s ashes for autumn. Still, I keep running.
I run and often forget where I really am and think I’m home, sipping a cup of coffee while still in my pajamas, feet up on the coffee table. But then, I glance down at my feet and seem surprised to see shoes on them, newly aware of the run, and wonder if I’m flying over the path—I feel weightless and connected to my surroundings on a new level. My mind is blank with my body running on muscle memory and senses as I survey the river with the rocks under the glassy surface, trees rustling, the sky so blue. I can stop the flow of water to examine a crayfish near a rock, zeroing in on pieces from the wide expanse of my eyes. I feel as if I have superpowers. And by some miracle, my feet run on. Faster with each exhale. Up the hill, my legs accelerate with smaller steps, carrying me into a new reality.
I run because on my run I fly. And so can you.