Every Good Morning

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The morning bite is back at least for now, and it kicks in more energy — that cold air briskness we long for after the drenching summer. Down the steps heading to the gym, early, early, good layered grays and pearls and lavenders of a November sky — head up, eyes wide.

He is doing that fox lope so different from a dog or wolf. It looks as if there is a hitch in it or a skip. It has a 1_2 1_2 rhythm, and on the second beat its chest and head and front paws appear to rise up. It sees me on the steps but continues toward the road and the long field and miles of woods on the other side. It stays the course. It neither hesitates nor changes direction. He takes in the bus stopped south of him, another car pausing before him. When I come down the steps, my eyes upon him, he sees, and his speed accelerates. My God, the long line of him! His dusky tail rises straight behind. He has a red-black chest and head. He is running very fast. The rhythm is gone in this full out sprint. He becomes a blur. Across — up the slant of the road shelf and gone. Oh, I want to shout to someone, “Did you see that!” The pleasure of his wildness, the crack of it, and the morning changes the day, his run becoming this rhapsodic moment, a burst of happiness in my chest that stays.

© Mike Wall

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