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It’s Saturday morning, almost 7am. The sun is just starting to rise over the horizon – so much later than it had all summer. I remind myself that with the end of Daylight Savings Time next week, we’ll get the early morning light again, at least for a while.
I put on my new running jacket and gloves and head outside, idly wondering if I’ll need my earband, but I decide to leave it home for now.
I set off, my breath on that first hill coming quickly in white puffs, the sky pink and blue and orange. My legs feel good, the air is crisp and clean, and within the first mile my breathing has settled into a regular cadence, my legs and breath working together, and I can focus instead on the woods around me instead of the physical sensation of running.
It’s past peak foliage; the leaves that were yellow and orange and scarlet and green a couple weeks ago are burnished gold in the morning sun, and there are patches of sunlight on the street where only last week there was shade. Overhead, I hear the honking of geese.
The noreaster we had last week scrubbed the trees of most of their leaves, and they haven’t fully dried, and so at the edge of the roads are tracks of fallen leaves. I run through them and over them, my eyes down in places to make sure I’m not going to trip over the sticks and branches.
It’s like running in a kaleidoscope of gold.