When the run does its work, I will become lost in its beating heart.
We run on.
From ‘Running with the Pack’
by Mark Rowlands
Today’s photos come from a run I went on in early September on a day when the first faint hint of spring was in the air.
I followed a path that wound through scrub and vineyards and wetlands and beach.
Somewhere along the path, an elderly couple were standing, leaning against a wooden fence. The man greeted me as I came closer, and called out, ‘Where have you come from? Where does this path lead to?’ And so I stopped to chat to them, describing how to get to the beach from where they were.
In the wetlands I pulled out my camera. The pictures show the landscape, but they don’t convey the sounds — frogs croaking, a hidden moorhen squawking wildly in amongst the reeds.
And they don’t convey the feeling of the sun on my skin, either: warm and sweet and new, the way the sun always feels in the first, early days of spring.
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