This morning, I looked up and saw the most vibrant, glossy leaves of a magnolia standing squarely and mysteriously amid January’s brown hickories, ash, and shrubs whose blooms have not opened their name to me. The blue above fit neatly between winter’s spindly fingers, and remains to me since childhood the purest the sky has to offer – not tainted with indiscriminate dissonance of that which surrounds. At least once on our meander, I wave to the faceless engineer of the Norfolk Southern, and listen to its steady insistence. It reminds me of my father’s labor as yardmaster for the Pennsylvania line, and his powerful and gentle nature urging me on to the right path. It is ironic, in fact, that the train at this point divides the two Eggs of Fitzgerald’s island. The reviewer wrote of isolation and fear for a lone female jogger, but except for the overrunning of Saturday’s crowds, I listen for the comforting breaks in solitude as joggers, new moms with cozies, and men with canes pass into their own reflection on the weekday route.
INSCAPE • 13