115928509_1068189260242716_440431194216168819_nrunning over the last couple of weeks has been an undulating unfolding of flora.  rusty clover blossoms now in the shadows of stately queen anne’s lace, ditches lined with brown-eyed susans and bright white mallows.  wild rose bushes in various stages of disarray.  clouds of st. john’s wort, the spikey reaches of mullein, the darlingness of fleabane. stripey pink morning glories nestled in hot summer entanglements. it has been a splendorous orgy for the eyes and nose.

a week ago i changed my running route. it is the time of summer when my usual and preferred route passes through the path of the great migration of wee slugs.

the colour of the linen scarf my great aunt drew around her neck on dressy occasions, these wee creatures are soft bodied and on the move. favouring moving camp in the dampness of a heavy dew or after an overnight rain, they cross the road from one farm field to another in a grass-is-greener crisscross flash mob fashion.  the four tire ruts in the road are dotted dark with the demise of the unlucky multitudes and when the sun rises high enough many more become itsy bitsy toasted crunchies.

110684638_599583477652653_414808882364606361_nlanding on these wee beings in bare feet is a most unpleasant sensation; their demise underfoot saddens and nauseates me.  at some point, their migration becomes so populated that my timewarp running pattern cannot save them, or me. so, i head out eastbound and return westbound instead of the reverse.

today i wonder if i have a stress fracture in my right foot or ankle.


she always loved the things

that the rest of the world forgot

snails and slugs and the broken flowers.

i think that’s why she loved me,

i was another broken thing,

that the world had left behind

~ atticus