Perfect Morning

It was a perfect morning.  Seriously.  I got up and out of the house to go on my first run in almost two months and I can’t imagine picking a finer day to do it.

I was out before the sun rose.  The sky was aglow with pre-dawn pink and blue.  It was cold enough that we had the hardest frost yet this fall, so everything was coated in a layer of white crystals.  The field is full of brown grass and no longer flowering flowers.  All of it was thickly covered in frost.  The fluffy milkweed seeds that had blown into the driveway sat still, glowing.  Every pebble was rimed.

With the tinted sky, white highlighting every surface, leaves still offering a display of orange and red and yellow, and the air windless, I was awestruck.  The cold air was clear and so was my head.  I ran into a perfectly picturesque world.

As I ran I saw the morning as a paradigm of the pastoral.  Hay bales sat scattered across the mowed fields.  Ravens perched in leafless trees, croaking out their series of four quick notes when I passed.  A harrier lifted from the pond hidden over the hill.  Corn stubble lined up in even rows on a distant hillside.  Maple leaves drifted down to the crumbling grave stones in the ancient cemetery.

This is why I live here.  This is why I run.  Not every morning is as beautiful as this one, but they all have beauty to offer.  I have run the same route many many times, but it has never looked like it did today.  In fact, I ran out and back, and on the way back, it looked different than on the way out.  Every moment the world is new.  Every moment we have the chance to find wonder.

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