If you lean too hard, you’ll go tumbling out of shadows, into the lake. Look, like how the leaves strain against their cuffs in the wind, leaning into the goldenrod breeze. Look at the lovers lean into each other, racing against sundown, lips brushing freckles, freckles brushing blades tickling toes.
There is no time for thinking now, but the mechanical slapslap of feet against pavement. I can sum up Murakami’s book: what does he think about when running? Nothing. Justin’s been reading more about running lately and letting me read his books. I realize that I enjoy how mechanical it is: I like the forward lean, the rhythmic labor of breathing, driving forward, but not too far forward lest you tumble (where?). I’ve been feeling more aggressive with my run form, enjoying the feeling of being fast and the brushing of warm rays on my back. It’s going to get me in trouble._ _
I lean into the whoopsiedaisy turn lane and find that will be occupied in three-two-one but thankfully I reel back in and thank my lucky stars. A wandering Kia once leaned into me and gently lay my bike down in the bike lane. I am happy to report I didn’t go down with it, but wondered in a few panicked moments if people would do their better thinking laying down.
With much sighing, a flock of photons once barreled into the earth in a lazy arc, leaving tendrils of dirt-dust in its wake. The sun bathed us in a lemonade glow in the evening—I tried to catch it in the viewfinder, but decided to let the moment stand silent, solemn by my side, the way you would imagine you would feel in one of those movie-moments pregnant with meaning, voiced by a steel guitar. On the way back from Portland I imagined just that, feeling like our car was the only one in the world, leaning into thin slices of daylight. I caught myself singing along to the stereo, and at that moment thought that we should drive to the world’s edge, then go some more.