It’s my first time to run in autumn. Crisp red-orange fallen leaves lie under my feet; my legs won’t stop moving; church bells ring nearby; all is music that pulls me closer and closer to where the sun shines, gently, complementing the cool breeze, all of nature that makes autumn autumn.
I run on fallen autumn leaves or rough sandy walkways but never the grass. The grass is too beautiful to step on. Towering trees rise above them; jets cut the vast clear sky.
It’s as if I haven’t run in decades. I run longer, farther, on and on towards the light. Flocked doves fly off instantaneously as I turn a corner, as if dreading me like a species with a grave disease. In a few metres, I slow down where my little nephew is, who may clap my hand in a high-five only sideways, as if to mark a milestone of a full run, or may fake cry on me pleading me to stop because that’s how toddlers communicate their discomfort about new things they see.
It’s my first time to run in autumn.
I’ve run once in winter.
It’s but natural to dream of spring.