Along the Schuylkill at Valley Forge

The river meanders through Valley Forge on a foggy winter morning. The geese’s honks break the silence, and their webbed feet leave wakes behind them.

The sky spits rain through the fog on our long run. I don’t mind.

The fog takes me to Seattle in winter where western hemlocks nod in the wind and the mountains hide in the mist. But there are only hills here with Eastern redbuds, black gums, and maples spreading bare branches to the low sky. Their roots reach down to the river that flows to the Delaware Bay into the Atlantic that holds hands with the Pacific.

If I close my eyes, I am there, tracing the northern arc of the Atlantic to the Arctic and into the Pacific where it’s raining too.

I follow the river on my run, and I can go anywhere. The rain cools my face, and I am free.

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