That One Night in the East of Town

I find my best ideas in the frigid air, inhale them; only for the inevitable dissipation when my breathing calms, as the chemicals fade. If I could write while running, about running, then perhaps my words could better find the circumference of the moment. There would be words for the hours spent stomping through snow, across town, around abandoned railroad tracks and industrial rubble, former mills and automobile husks. The smell of wood burning in the yard there. The man smoking on the sidewalk, whose cigarette I can briefly taste, in passing. The dog that chases me on the other side of its fence, blissfully for a few seconds. The totality of the experience is indeed a patchwork tapestry, a whole that is anything but. Moments, stitched by steps, unwoven when the footfalls cease, until there is again just fabric, waiting for the next day's thread.