The first half mile of our weekly club run usually finds me chatting with a fellow runner. Our gaspy exchanges are sometimes muffled by passing cars or interrupted as we dodge sidewalk obstacles. These few minutes can be just as social as the hour at the bar afterwards.
During a recent run, temperatures were truly frigid and I wasn't feeling talkative. There was a bite in the air that prompted my lizard brain to stir: it's too cold to talk– move fast, stay warm, finish soon. My feet found a quick rhythm and with nobody running nearby, I adjusted to relative silence.
As I turned into the final mile of our weekly loop, I began to pass under a row of trees growing along the sidewalk. I heard a subtle crunching or scratching sound, like a handful of pebbles being squeezed inside a fist. There was movement above me. Looking up, I watched hundreds of crows take flight. Each time I ran under a tree, its occupants launched into the night. They were mute– nothing like crows leaving their trees in the morning. The sound I heard must have been their talons releasing from the frozen trees. When I cleared the final tree, the whole flock had flown on ahead of me.
A few minutes later, I was done running and hopefully the crows were done flying, perhaps settling near the Hudson where I've seen them roost in the past. Warmth and indoor sounds eventually beckoned. I breathed my last lungful of icy air and joined my friends inside.
Comments