Saturday, July 30th,
2016
Redfield, Iowa
I Start
I start when the
crickets are in concert and when the owl can be heard, but not seen. It’s true.
I can never discern which tree he’s perched upon when I begin those
early steps before dawn cracks.
Sometimes I become oblivious to sound, to the point where I’m convinced
there is no sound outside of my murmuring mantras
before the tree residents show presence.
I feel it’s so silent that I start to hear human voices in the distance.
In this case at 4:33
am, as I was leaving the quaintness of town Perry, I did hear voices—real
ones. Quite early for cyclists!” I thought.
But there they were, and there they went. Two women, helmeted for safety, with bikes
lit for any objects ahead.
So I became an
object, and not one to be objected to.
We all share the trail here. That
is the culture established on the Raccoon River Valley Trail. On Saturday hundreds of cyclists tread the
trail. All other creatures cross, or
crawl, or hop, or fly, or leap the trail.
Rabbits, chipmunks, skunks, coyotes and more make their move. No, I haven’t seen a raccoon yet, strange as
it is.
Those that don’t have
the capacity to move, but stand gloriously as they offer their looks, smells
and tastes. Blackberries, wild plumbs,
choke-cherries, apples, mulberries, elderberries, and all herbal wonders line
this path. There’s a serious community
present. And the cyclists? They move fast but are ever courteous about
space.
They, the cyclists,
runners and walkers, I’m convinced, are the happiest people. Line them up against a wall of motorists and
they’re no comparison.
May the Source be
with you!
20 miles
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