After I got back from my run, I told Clio that we could go for a walk in the garden. The fog had burned off, and it was an eerily warm day for December. I saw a fat housefly and wondered where it had spent the past month or so. A flock of pigeons circled overhead, and I allowed myself to be hypnotized by the slow curving arcs the birds made through the sky.
Stephen had already cleared out the troughs and planted bulbs for next spring. Even though it's been unusually warm this fall, spring felt like it was still a long way off. Last week, when the temperature dipped into the twenties, I wondered if we should start thinking about moving to Fort Lauderdale. Stephen recently sent me an article about how Wilton Manors -- a neighborhood in Fort Lauderdale -- has become a major non-heterosexual mecca. Could I live in Florida? I couldn't imagine it, but I liked the idea of being someplace warm and gay in the winter.
Somewhat gingerly, I took the stairs down to the garden. I was sore from the run, which had been long and probably faster than most running experts seem to recommend these days. Since recovering from a bad ankle sprain in August, I've decided not to wear a watch when I run, which I'm sure has slowed me down (in a good way), but yesterday I somehow ended up in the middle of an actual race (runners with bibs, etc.) being held in Riverside Park on the Upper West Side, which of course led me to pick up the pace for a few miles. I even crossed the finish line because there was no way around it to get where I wanted to go. Then, on my way back home, I was passed by a guy moving at a pretty good clip, so I decided to duck in behind him for a few more miles until he turned around. And by this point I was in 'the zone,' which happens after an hour or so of moderately hard running when everything kind of clicks and you can run pretty fast for what feels like an almost indefinite amount of time. It's not like the discomfort fades, but -- along with the litany of injuries whose echoes never completely stop -- it recedes into the background, and during this period, time and distance melt away, which is an amazing feeling and maybe worth all the pain and training it takes to get there.
Most of the leaves had fallen in the garden.
For some reason, this Japanese maple is always late.
The non-evergreen ferns were also fading.
There were many leaves waiting to be swept and raked and mulched, but I decided to wait another week before tackling this chore. I wanted all the leaves to be down, and next weeks is supposed to be warm and dry, which is better for raking than wet and soggy.
I'm looking forward to tidying everything up before the winter.
I still have to transplant the toad lilies, which is going to be a major operation. I'm a bit nervous because they've been in the same spot for probably eight or nine years, but they're now too big. I hope they like their new home. You can never be 100-percent sure with plants. (Or people.)
I also have to put away the candle holders, so that they won't rust in the (hypothetical) snow.
Next week, I thought, these steps will be swept clean.
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