Saturday Morning



All the candles
burning down to the metal,

the radiator singing its dumb water song.


The dust
in my lungs.
Knock it
out of me.


did it get so cold?

~ Marty McConnell, Elegy

Credits: Poem – VerseDaily. Photo: Exercice de Style

Your morning coffee (90 sec)

Your morning coffee. In autumn, on the Seki River in Myoko Japan. Music is Holocene by Bon Iver.

Running. In Warsaw.


The hotel lobby. (~2006)
High cathedral ceilings. Dark wood grain walls.  Turkish Rugs that run and run.
There’s a whiff of lemon in the air, the wood floors scrubbed by the overnight crew.
The Bellman, adorned with a red cap, offers a “God Morning” in broken English, and quickly drops his head back to his book.
A step back in time.

There’s no mistaking Warsaw (Poland, not Indiana) for the youth and flamboyance of Barcelona or the hushed old money wealth of Geneva or the modern efficiency and hum of Tokyo.

Warsaw is the Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. Long past his prime and wearing deep scars of bone jarring defeat. Tired, hurt and a heaviness that lingers.

It was a slow run 9 years ago.
An early Sunday morning in autumn.
A single 40-minute run cutting deep furrows which are turned over and over again. [Read more…]

SMWI*: Walk. Now.


In the back of my awareness,
I also know this:
The day will come when
I shall have to recall the luxuriant splendor of long, solitary walks,
rather than take them.

~ Katrina Kenison, Present. Magical Journey: An Apprenticeship in Contentment 


  • SMWI* = Saturday Morning Work-Out Inspiration.
  • Photo by Maxine – My Perfect Void – My october | Russia, 10/30/2015.

And, Autumn. And, Saturday Mornings. WORD.


Rumi said,
There is no proof of the soul.
But isn’t the return of spring
and how it springs up in our hearts
a pretty good hint?

~ Mary Oliver, Whistling Swans. Felicity: Poems

Running. With Rain.


56° F.  Rain spitting on the windshield.
The convoy rolls out to Mianus River for a trail run.
Zeke sighs as he curls in the backseat.  Anya settles in the trunk.
The Wolfpack is draggin’.
Their leader rides the slow lane on I-95 thinking about the benefits of a long walk on his joints.
99 days. 3 months + since your last trail run. What a lazy a**.

Rain stops.  Clouds hang low.
We pass through the gate.
The Park is empty but for a fisherman making his way upstream.
Both dogs pull on the leashes. A sharp tug gets them to heal.
Wait! I’m not ready for this yet.

I look up.
A gold leaf canopy.
I look down.
A solid gold leaf carpet.
Someone is laying tracks.
[Read more…]

Driving I-95 S. With Wabi Sabi.


55 F.
6:15 am.

Red tail light blinkers flash ahead.
One car after another, clears the way.
Left lane is all mine today. All mine.

Autumn hues frame the highway.
The browns, the yellows, the reds flash by.
The clouds, paintings, gliding silently overhead.

What is this?

It’s Roland Barthes in Deliberation: The window is wide open, the gray day has lifted now. I experience a certain floating euphoria: everything is liquid, aerated, drinkable (I drink the air, the moment, the garden)

7 on 70s spin on Sirius. Boz Scaggs playing Lowdown:

Nothin’ you can’t handle
Nothin’ you ain’t got


17 minutes door-to-door.

Game time.


Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it


Autumnal – nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day… Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it… Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses… deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth — reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.

~ Tom Stoppard




The dawn-wind stirs through the ancient cottonwoods

Colorado, Cache La Poudre River

There are some who can live without wild things
and some who cannot . . .
when the dawn-wind stirs through the ancient cottonwoods,
and the gray light steals down from the hills
over the old river sliding softly past its wide brown sandbars –
what if there be no more goose music?

~ Aldo Leopold, Sand County Almanac


Driving the East River Drive. Every risk, shimmering.


It was Tuesday. Yes, Autumn. Yes, New York City. But it certainly didn’t look or feel anything like this. Add 5,000 cars.  And move the map to the FDR, the East River Drive.

I’m one hour and 20 minutes on the road and Waze is signaling that I’m still 30 minutes away. 1:50 for a 0:45 min ride. And now, the crush of the morning rush.  My lower back is stiff.  There’s a nagging kink in my neck. And, I can’t settle. I shift left, then right. I grab my water bottle, take a pull. Tap my fingers on the console.  I glance at my watch. I’m going to be late. Didn’t count on this delay. I push the pace. DK won’t be late.

If you’ve never driven the East Side Highway, think Daytona 500 with a crudely straightened 3-lane track.  Three lanes made for 2.5.  Traffic, sardines, tightly packed. There’s zero room for a slip, no room for wandering. Hugging your left shoulder is a 4-foot cement girder offering a bumper car cushion. Drains (sink holes) are distributed every 1000 feet to release rain water.  Off your right shoulder, another car – open your window and finger brush the door panel.  You grip the wheel, white knuckles, and Glare, eyes panning up front, left, right and down (especially down to avoid the abyss) and then back again. The Gotham Death March.  I push the pace with the cabbies, we dart in and out, looking to gain one car length, maybe two.

SiriusXM is spinning 70s on 7. [Read more…]