I love the unhindered view of the horizon, the burnt crest blazes upwards through the cragged bare branches of winter; the moon, peeking through the tree's tentacles, suspended in cold silence; the capricious sunset, unraveling an undulating prism of winter sky.
A cold December run yields generous, expansive skylines, crystalline stardrops, and lunar surprises. Running along highway 4, I stopped to savor the sunset. As it slipped toward the horizon, I wondered what it would be like to pass my hand through the silken clouds and touch the sun.
Along Highway 4 rests a progression of windmills, symbols meant to capture the gales of progress as time continues its maddening march through our once thriving farm community. I run frequently by these wheat fields. Beneath the archaic wind generators the land rests easy now but the blades are still pummeled and sifted by the relentless Oklahoma wind. For a runner, wind is a bitter foe. I can run in arctic cold, pouring rain, and noxious heat, but the headwinds that assail a runner are "nigh untenable". In my mind, I charge as Don Quixote, astride my gallant two-legged steed tilting furiously toward the giant windmills, "fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you!". But most often, I pick myself up as the sensible Sancho within me reprimands my wounded pride, "straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one side, may be from the shaking of the fall". Once again, I am "robbed of the glory of vanquishing them."