October 10, 2009, journal entry

15 miles.

My baby needs a shepherd
She’s lost out on the hill
Too late I tried to call her
When the night was cold and still
And I tell myself I’ll find her
But I know I never will
My baby needs a shepherd
She’s lost out on the hill.

I chant in each breath’s intaking and outgoing while the cold enters my bones. I wish for my black wool cape.

Cold wind stings my eyes, draws tears.

I’ve finally surrendered to black running tights after refraining, finally ready to give up my running skirt to cold though I’ve long added the extra shirt and gloves to my ensemble.

My eyes blink and squint in the cold, gold brilliant sun.

The Sun coldly moves south while the Moon, in her changing yet returning shapes, cycles monthly.

Autumn has taken the lead in the quartet of seasons though Winter waits with her cold instruments.

Water sits in cold-grey piles, frozen, caught red-handed. (I hope home and business owners turn the sprinkler timers off.) I don’t like running on ice.

Red-leaved shrubs line the center of a curving cold-grey boulevard like a stripe of gumdrop candies on the roof of a gingerbread house.

In the cold, I am glad for the large cool-blue polar fleece vest I am wearing. I weight my pockets with my hands without hindering my pace.

Cloisters of choice apples, plums, and peaches on trees. Orange, red, and blue beads are strung tightly on trees’ branches. These cold berries are provision for Winter’s birds.

I am acutely aware of my stride, the alternating rhythm of each leg in cold.

Mats of golden pine needles, thick layers of toy pick-up sticks, like miniature old wood, drop to cold ground and make way for new growth.

The air is active. Its motion in cold numbs my hands and skin red. I’ve been out for two hours.

The warmth of the Sun from the South and the cold of the Wind from the North.

The veil continues to thin.

And I continue to listen.

My baby needs a mother
To love her to the end
Up every rugged mountain
And down every road that bends
Sometimes I hear her cryin’
But I guess it’s just the wind
My baby needs a mother
To love her till the end.

I chant as the cold enters my bones.

(from Emmylou Harris, “My Baby Needs a Shepherd”)

GL, 10/10/2009. Prevail.