The Shortest Day

Al and I walk the Towpath Trail along the Cuyahoga River on a cold, rainy Northeast Ohio day. No one else is on the trail; perhaps they do not trust—as we do—that the brief break in the weather will last long enough for a quick hike. But we believe we can squeeze it in—a chance to leave our house and get outside. In the pandemic, we sometimes have seemed to think that our outdoor opportunities have been limited, but that’s not really true. Nothing stands in our way. Properly garbed—today, rain jackets, hats, gloves, and the ever-present masks—we can sally forth with abandon, if we choose to do so.

And we do choose so.

The air is pleasantly cold on cheeks (as it turns out, masks are welcome face protectors from wind and cold), and bugs are long gone (as are beautiful hornet nests hanging from trees—admired from a safe, ground-level distance—apparently, they blew down in the last windstorm). We now are in a land of little color—gray sky; fall leaves that are sodden and dull on the ground; a swiftly moving river that, with no reflective sunshine, looks like liquid iron.

This colorlessness draws the eye to whatever is left—startlingly bright green moss, a few gold leaves still clinging to branches, the occasional male cardinal. It is restful. Restful to walk quietly while listening to the scuffle of squirrels—the occasional whistle of freight trains—Canadian Geese calling—the steady hum from a plane from above.

It almost is the shortest day—longest night—of the year. In this year—2020—I feel an urgency for time to pass and the New Year to start us afresh. But right now—while walking and appreciating the quiet calm before the rain begins again—I am happy for this languorous feeling.

This, too, shall pass.