Not Caring

Friday morning found me running in Forest Park. It had been raining steadily the past couple of days, but I didn't care.

Everything was saturated. Gray, swirling dark gray, but still beauty in the overcast morning while the world worked and I ran the hills. I did an hour and one half, the foot hurting at one hour in, but I didn't care.

Most of the leaves were off the trees from the wind and the rain, but the maples were there-toasted, muted against what shadowy strands of sky the canopy allows. Most branches were barren, but I didn't care.

On Pimetoui I ran past a park ranger working in the chilly rain clearing saplings and brush from the hill prairie with his chainsaw. I stopped. We talked about the forests, about how the powers that be eschew fire and how shortsighted they are to do so, and how that shortsightedness shapes these woods into something they've never been; we talked about the delicate hill prairie, so rare now it is. My run put on hold for several minutes, but I didn't care.

My pace actually quickened on the precipitous downhill toward the road, stepping lightly over the few roots I could actually see through the leaf cover. Back to the parking lot, mud caked soles, sweat, the foot throbbing with every step. I looked a mess; I'm sure of it, but I didn't care.