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Shadow Runners

The trees seem to bend in pain, arching their backs, aching to prove once again that they can catch their own shadow, never knowing that the only way to beat a shadow is to keep running into the sun. Tables left empty, the birds have long since finished off the scraps of a summer pick-nick. The scuff marks left from a sibling soccer game filled now with decaying leaves. The ground is brown, unusual for New England, they say we had the first” Brown Christmas” in seven years. Meaning no snow on the ground. At least not over here by the sea.

Beyond the tall reeds in the back ground, it’s all marsh land, a bird sanctuary. They build small walk ways out into the marsh, so you can walk out and observe, birds probably wish we would all stay home. But on this day the temperature was flirting at long distance below the line with freezing. With a wind coming off the flat mash and a temperature at around 28 degrees the wind chill was pushing ten harder than ten should ever be pushed.

I realized then that trees were not bending toward their own shadows, but running bent slightly backward into the sun.

So I took my cue, bent my back into my own shadow, threw my face toward the sun, and once again tried, as though the trees and I were still young

To out run my shadow.