Dry pavement. Thirty-four degrees. Stars, clouds, fog.
I was passed by a young runner this morning whose footsteps were so loud they started a dog barking. He was on the sidewalk, I was in the middle of the road.
Someday, if the young runner is lucky, he will be an old runner. If he’s even luckier, he’ll be a running elder, prized for his wisdom in all the villages around.
I’m already lucky: I’m a running fool.
He left me behind on the hill.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet