It’s day of an enjoyable short vacation. Claire and I make the most of the beach, she taking 2 hour walks, me running an hour and a half. Yesterday we both walked together, though I did some sprints while we walked. Some pictures below…

I wrote a poem to capture some of my running experience today:

The Feet of Fleeting Birds

I run early while the morning tides

massage sand bubbles along the shoreline

I step upon them and there is hollowness,

like empty milk cartoons made of sand

filled with pockets of air

the castle is silent, the King is still asleep

all is quiet along the Ocean Walk boardwalk

Joe’s Crab Shack glows in neon lights

as it sits on a pier breaching towards

the Atlantic Ocean

forty minutes of open shoreline

wetted by the lapping waves

there are silhouettes, shadows of people

I pass by strolling along the beach

some slightly acknowledge me with a nod

others are like the monoliths of Easter Island

mysterious stone facades

wandering in the twilight of an early sunrise

yesterday was today

Will I touch the soles of fleeting seagulls

dispersing and gathering again before me?

Such a whimsical aspiration—

to touch the foot of a fleeing bird.

They lift all at once, like an umbrella

and then settle down yards away

like a sheet upon a bed

I trained for this today, to reach the citadel,

a cylindrical shaped building,

my turnaround point

the ocean has a rhythm and I tune my body

to feel its cadence

the waves crash and then silence

my foot lands and then I exhale

become one with the ocean

as the miles slip beneath my feet

ignore discomfort, ignore pain

just become the machine

at the citadel I turn around

and welcome the breeze across my brow

it dries my tears of sweat

I drink it in, all of it, its oxygen

my body consumes it as fuel for the running

machine

in the distance I perceive Joe’s pier,

but it’s a mirage in the oasis of the ocean

the ocean speaks to me in ancient

timeless words

as it has spoken to countless strangers

now dead and buried eons ago

there is an enigmatic wisdom

in the rhythmic crashing of its waves,

timeless words,

if you listen you will seize the moment

and the waves will applaud you

Never have I touched the foot of a fleeing bird,

but I’ve captured the spirit of its wings in my hands.