Roy G. Biv

The darkness entered surreptitiously; slightly more detectable running towards the East. It sucked what little fall color remains. Mostly the flaming colors of kamikaze leaves strewn along the outsides of the gun-metal gray gravel of the trail. It rested like wet, day-after confetti. Roy G. Biv was definitely getting ready for his off season.





A woman in white approached. Was she running? Walking? Or walking until she saw someone. She was walking a small collie and her puffy, down coat made her look like an ambulatory marshmallow. Hot cocoa would be nice now I thought.





Where the trail traversed the roads, several dark and angry cars blurred by. Sight was losing out to hearing in a battle of the senses.





I crunched my way to the turnaround artificially imposed by my watch, artificially imposed by my brain. The screeching of wet bike brakes announced the presence of some cyclists up ahead. They entered from the road, made a sweeping turn and headed into the darkness with only a blinking red light proof of their existence.



The run reminded me of many Andrew Wyeth paintings; devoid of vibrant color. The above painting is titled Winter 1946. Kitima and I have hats like his. Yes, with the flaps. Laugh if you must.