Yesterday afternoon my running shoes crunched through residual snow crust. I gathered no momentum, no running rhythm. I kept stopping to photograph the plays of light on pine tree bark, white gold light leaking through bronze pine-tops. No creatures; just light and colour, Stopping and staring too long I grew chilled and stiff. Lumbered into motion once more, struck by the warmth of the colours, by the cold sterile air. Spring is reaching tipping point now; melting winter.
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