We stumble in the half-darkness of undecided day. Our feet lack rhythm on the rocky path, and our thoughts are still too sleepy to become words. I have forgotten why I left my bed, why I agreed to meet my friends on the trails at an hour in limbo between stars and sun. But then Karen points to the hills, and I turn to look at the gold seeping in through the cracks of night and the sky smudged with pink and purple fingerprints. Gradually birds begin to shake the silence with song, and I remember.
Morning is the truest part of the day, when the outsides of things soften into their essence.
All the harsh outlines are blurred. It is the waking time, the being time, the small part of day when we forget what we have to do and remember who we are. We talk as we run, stopping our conversation only to use our breath for the hills. I think we could solve half the world's problems on these trails surrounded by eucalyptus and fennel. During these runs, even our failures have grace, and our past glories are as close as our shadows.