Where I Find My Heaven

if i were a genius i would somehow bottle the sensation of running pilot mountain on a clear fall day and give it to friends for christmas. the sweat, the burn, the hubbub of late cicadas, the beech trees trying to outshine the sun, the musk of wet leaf carpet (which is the most evocative seasonal smell i can think of, besides, well, ferns, smoke, frost, mown grass, bradford pear trees...). the trail climbs up endless switchbacks, so high that all the leaves have been stripped away by wind and weather, leaving only dog hobble and mountain laurel. the summit is so beautiful it hurts. mountain ranges stretch unobstructed in all directions and the leaves have turned only in the higher elevations, like a dusting of cayenne on each peak. i'd run many times farther just to earn that view. and afterwards comes the the sense of gratification, the well-deserved brownie. i'd bottle all of that.

because i am the opposite of a genius i failed to bring a camera and so could not even ineffectually capture one-tenth of what i was experiencing.

come with me next time.