On this Saturday morn, the first day of February, my running journey took me along a rustic bike path, where the gnarled and wizened trees watched over the fallow, brown fields flecked with small patches of ice and snow; through marshlands, where icy marshes and caramel-colored underbrush created a mosaic of simple, unadorned winter beauty, where a great blue heron, with its ancient and primitive wingspan, gracefully soared over the wetlands through the blue and gray heavens, and where a cardinal, with its fiery red and crimson plumage, was playfully fluttering and flitting about in a tangled thicket of brown and auburn bushes and underbrush; around the timeless waters of Spy Pond, where numerous skaters playfully frolicked on the frozen surface of the ancient kettle pond; and into an old cemetery, where, as the old trees stood as silent sentinels over the weather-worn gravestones and the surrounding fields, fallow, brown, and adorned with patches of ice ad snow, one could palpably sense the serenity and peacefulness of the souls resting there. And throughout the run, the dawn sky softened from the dusty gray of dawns twilight to lovely mosaic of light blue, light gray and white and finally to blue and white accentuated with the golden sparkle of the fresh sunlight of the new day.
Posted on: Sat, 01 Feb 2014 17:02:57 +0000
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