A Lucid Interval

The rain stopped just before my run, and, for most of the time I was out, there was a hazy window in the clouds that allowed me to see the full moon. The moon is always a good running companion, and perhaps its appearance was what stirred the coyotes in the nearby wetland to howl. It sounded like there were two of them. But their cries didn’t last long. And then I met someone riding a bicycle, his little light following the weave and flow of his leisurely ride. I saw no one else. The air was warm, about forty-five degrees, and very moist. The trees were dripping. I finished and was back inside at six, at which point I did a few stretching and breathing exercises. Then I showered. Then I had a glass of water. Now I’m here, demonstrating, apparently, how dull and uninteresting I can be. But these are the moments that make up a life — my life, anyway. And of course by mine, I don’t mean mine. And by moments, I don’t mean moments. As I wrote some weeks ago in one of my more lucid intervals, there is only This. And if one feels This isn’t enough, or that This is boring, one had best find out why he or she feels that way.

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