Hundreds of pieces of lint bangin’ around upstairs, but none stretch into a fluffy middle or knit to a checkered flag at the end. Flash. Flash. Flash. Blah. Nothing there. Nobody home. Nobody. Nothing.
When you bathe yourself in Mary Oliver poetry, her essays, her shorts – and when you waterboard your Blog followers with her Art, should there be any wonder of the source of the crippling doubt, the wellspring of inadequacy? Come on DK.
So here we go. In-n-out of her ethereal breezes to my…
It’s daybreak, yesterday. We’re on the way to Mianus River park for a trail run. The gauge reads 27° F, and wind chill is knocking that down. We’re on a cross-street in Stamford, five miles out. There’s no traffic. I stand at a red light. Anya‘s in the trunk, peeking between the head rests; outside, water vapor from the exhaust pipes spills into the cold and flurries of white smoke cloud the rear window.
My attention is pulled right. There he was. A Pigeon. He’s sitting on a ledge on a wall of the building lining the street, at my eye level. He’s looking at me, me at him.
Warm air blows through the vents, temperature set at 69° F in the cabin. His breast bone is puffed out and his wings are tucked in, sheltered from the cold.
He’s standing on a frigid concrete ledge, with wind gusts blowing along the wall – no hat, no socks, no long underwear, no boots, no leg warmers and no double lined goose-down winter coat. 10,000 feathers line his coat.
I glance in the rear view mirror, no traffic. And I see me, looking at me with my eyeglasses. He hasn’t broken his stare. He has no progressive, scratch resistant anti-reflective eyeglasses, yet, he can see over a 26 mile distance. He can hear wind blowing over mountains from hundreds of miles away.
The light turns green. He hasn’t blinked, he hasn’t twitched.
I pull away.
We’re 4 miles into the run, and I’m struggling to catch my breath. I’m gassed. I stop, and sit on a rock to rest. He beats his wings up to ten times per second, while maintaining a heart rate of 600 beats per minute up to 16 hours without rest. When he’s on a long flight, he reaches back and holds on to the short tail feathers with his feet in order to save energy.
I get up. “Let’s go Anya. Let’s finish this up.”
That’s right. I’ve got nothing. Nothing here.
- Post Inspiration: Thank you Val Boyko.
- Sources: Photo – Pigeon from Green + Flex. Pigeon Facts – fbipigeons.com
- Related Posts: Running Series