Run in the rain

Running in the rain. There's a calm in it. My memories surface like earthworms. The gray and green all around us as we trudged from locker room to field. The squish and squelch of grass that never really dried. Then the soft thud of sneaker on asphalt.

"Run for an hour."

We would. We'd laugh and talk about stupid things we'd said or done as we headed out past the women's prison. It would be halfway or more into the season, so our conditioning was at its peak. The drenched pine forest would swallow us and we were ghosts, beating down the well-trod trails. We'd breathe and breathe, more alive with oxygen than anyone else on the Earth on those afternoons. The rain went to our bones and souls which would grow smooth as glass but not brittle, green with the grit of renewal. 

After a while we'd go quiet. The forest spoke for us. Rain found fern and needle and a trillion love stories sprang to life while we floated past. And then we'd leave for the road and let the forest be alone. Our cadence would quicken on the way back and the rain would pelt our faces and loosen our limbs so that we our bodies were thin cable, strong and pliable. 

There was rhythm in the rain.