A few weekends ago I went to cheer on friends and capture some photos at the Merrimack River Trail Race. I can't claim I miss running fast, especially on this course, but I do miss traveling through the trees dodging roots and rocks and effs.
After the racers passed, I walked along the river and watched the water. I thought of the girl who drowned and the poem my mother wrote about her. I remembered another story from a friend who said that during his runs along the Deer Jump he found letters and bouquets of flowers— at the same place and same time, year after year.
Then the leaders came through, breathing as if shy of a lung, and then the mortals and they too pass.
Still, the river is constant.