I run a lot. It keeps me from smacking people with blunt objects. Never far enough, long enough, fast enough to grind the rust off of my anger and thereby render it operable. But, at a high enough velocity, I can almost pretend I’m clutching Winfield’s back as he gallops across an open field of weeds; my fingers coiled in his long mane, the feathery tips of weeds licking my bare feet, the sense of possibility all encompassing and expansive and endearing.
About sixty-two today; bloody cold.
