Each day I rise at the buzz of my alarm, groggy from not enough sleep, and stumble into the closet to put on walking clothes—shorts and tanks in the summer and layers upon layers in the winter. By the time I’ve tied my sneakers, I’m awake and ready to go. The next hour or so will be all mine.

My route these days is the Naperville Riverwalk, which runs nearly two miles along the west branch of the DuPage River. Meandering through downtown, it is an oasis of nature in the midst of suburban development. In the springtime, I cross paths with downy ducklings rippling through the water behind their proud parents. In summer, the wildflowers take turns showing off their colors. In the fall, the great blue herons wade knee-deep underneath branches golden leaves. And in the winter, the morning mist hovers above the icy water as if resting a peaceful hand upon the city the will soon be hustling and bustling.

Just as delightful as the flora and fauna around me are the people I meet on my walk: old folks and young folks; competitive athletes and people leaning on canes; dog owners holding onto leashes and parents pushing strollers; long-married couples, flirting sweethearts, and—like Piercy and her companion—bosom buddies. We say hello; we comment on the weather; we wish one another a good day. With time, we become friends of a sort—helping each other to start our day in good cheer, as Piercy and her friend do in this poem from the collection The Moon is Always Female.

Morning Athletes

by Marge Piercy
for Gloria Nardin Watts

Most mornings we go running side by side
two women in mid-lives jogging, awkward
in our baggy improvisations, two
bundles of rejects from the thrift shop.
Men in their zippy outfits run in packs
on the road where we park, meet
like lovers on the wood’s edge and walk
sedately around the corner out of sight
to our own hardened clay road, High Toss.

Slowly we shuffle, serious, panting
but talking as we trot, our old honorable
wounds in knee and back and ankle paining
us, short, fleshy, dark haired, Italian
and Jew, with our full breasts carefully
confined. We are rich earthy cooks
both of us and the flesh we are working
off was put on with grave pleasure. We
appreciate each other’s cooking, each
other’s art, photographer and poet, jogging
in the chill and wet and green, in the blaze
of young sun, talking over our work,
our plans, our men, our ideas, watching
each other like a pot that might boil dry
for that sign of too harsh fatigue.

It is not the running I love, thump
thump with my leaden feet that only
infrequently are winged and prancing,
but the light that glints off the cattails
as the wind furrows them, the rum cherries
reddening leaf and fruit, the way the pines
blacken the sunlight on their bristles,
the hawk flapping three times, then floating
low over beige grasses,
and your company
as we trot, two friendly dogs leaving
tracks in the sand. The geese call
on the river wandering lost in sedges
and we talk and pant, pant and talk
in the morning early and busy together.

Jennie Smith-Pariola

I’m an anthropologist, a college instructor, a microfarmer, and a nursing student. I'm also the creator of the Online Poetry Box website and blog.

https://onlinepoetrybox.com
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Nothing Gold Can Stay