a gray run

A gray run, brightened considerably by the chickadees.

November may be the most gray month of the year. It seems like the sun never shines during November. Of course, that’s an exaggeration, but still. One starts to run out of ways to describe the color of the sky: battleship, steel, iron, sooty, silver, ashen, dismal, smoky, powdered, leaden .. all synonyms or adjectives to describe that extremely dull color: gray.

The trees turned late here this year; some of them are desperately hanging onto their burnished golds and fiery scarlets, but most of the leaves are now on the ground. The decaying leaves give the air a certain earthy fragrance. They make a soft carpet to run on, even adding cushioning to the hardest concrete sidewalks. It is a slippery carpet, though.

Given the lack of foliage and the grayness, I suppose you could say this is one of the most ugly times of the year. Everything seems so dull and dead and dirty. It’s also often quite cold.

Not today, though.

I go running nearly every single day. Sometimes I run and I forget that I am running and suddenly realize I’m a lot further along than I thought. Other days are a struggle, though I almost always feel better for having run. Still other days I seem hyper aware of my surroundings; I become extra aware of every tiny little detail: from the wildlife to the mottled green, gold, and red colors on the leaves under my feet. It’s not just sight either, but the smells — the wafting scent of breakfast or burning leaves or a fireplace. And sound — the crunch of gravel underfoot, the soft padding over the leaves, the squish and squeak of a well worn pair of running shoes, the sound of cars and the wind whistling past my ears.

I ran down by the lake today. The lake is just as gray as the sky. It was unseasonably warm — 60ish — and as a result I broke a pretty good sweat. The air was thick like a warm, wet blanket and the wind was gusting out of the south-southwest. It made the way out a little harder than the way back which is much more sheltered from the wind. The waves from the lake lapped gently against the pale sand. The white water gradually crawls forward, then as if an unseen giant was pulling a string, the waves pull backwards.

I saw a few birds. A red-bellied woodpecker clung on the side of an old oak tree. Woodpeckers don’t like to be spotted. They are shy and elusive. I’ve learned that at Gettysburg, “pursuing” the gorgeous red-headed variety. The red-headed woodpecker is common in the woods between the Virginia and North Carolina monuments where the road dips down and then rises up again. I also see them quite often at the Loop near the Wheatfield. And I spotted quite a gathering of these blue-black, white, and red stunning avians in the large old witness tree at Devil’s Den. They don’t like for you to know where they are, and if they sense you’re watching them, they will take off, progressively higher and higher into the trees. Anything to escape the prying human eyes.

The chickadees are much more friendly. They are tiny balls of feathers and fluff with bright black eyes that sport a distinctive shiny black cap and bib, with a contrasting paintbrush strip of white over their eyes. Their eyes are like tiny black stars glinting out from the snowy white surrounding feathers. The back of a chickadee is a gray (but it’s a warm gray) and their bellies a very soft, chestnut-golden brown, not unlike some of the strands that pepper my hair. The chickadees hop happily back and forth at the many bird feeders along my route. I also sometimes spot them curiously and cheerfully peeking out from an evergreen bush: tiny tufts of gold, brown, gray, black, and white.

What I like most about the chickadees is for such a delicate bird, they are actually very hardy. I see them out even in the worst weather. In that way, I suppose they are kind of like runners. They also always seem so cheerful, no matter what the weather. They don’t seem to mind the gray.

I saw a few other birds. A hold-over robin with dull-colored plumage, a few large white seagulls. And innumerable house sparrows, as always. Several coal black crows were perched high in a buckeye tree. They were engaged in cawing at a set of crows that had taken up a spot in another tall oak tree. I have always liked crows; they are smart and funny. I still smile at the thought of a very large, solitary crow crawling into a discarded bag from McDonald’s at college; the crow crawled into the wet and dirty bag and emerged triumphant with a piece of half-eaten hamburger. The crow enjoyed that hamburger as we would enjoy a piece of fillet mignon.

I saw many squirrels too. The squirrels are incredibly busy this time of year, gathering nuts and acorns for the coming winter. They were moving a bit faster than usual today.

I think the red furry squirrels are moving a lot today because they do not need the Weather Channel to tell them that the weather is changing. The northern sky is no longer gray but is now like a fresh bruise: dark, purple, angry. The wind is picking up more, and it is starting to rain. Tomorrow it is supposed to snow.

If I run tomorrow (I feel as though I could use a day off), I’ll be looking for the squirrels and woodpeckers and chickadees. It’s amazing what’s there when you take the time to look.