©Elisa Salasin, 2011

You run out the door and into your self and the sure-footed dog who pulls you into the morning, falls into the forward motion with you.  Each foot fall presses you onward, you are lifted and propelled into a self of open space pulsating with a rush of air and blood, air that becomes blood, blood that becomes sight and sweat and you rain tiny, trembling droplets of self, infinitesimal pieces of soul like a shower of sparks or a fine mist lain down over the streets through which you move, pulsing and exhaling and shedding mica chips of spirit that float and dance and sing in the air, motes of joy a spiritual dust all of this inside circling around the living bones, the soft aggregate of your skeleton, ball and socket, and ligaments of desire holding on to the other soft parts and the whole while you are moving in and through and no part of the air does not come in to you and no part of you does not go out and you are your own suspension bridge, you are one of the wonders of the world and it is only in movement that you find your own place with the world appearing and disappearing before you. It moves by as if it were on a moving sidewalk at the airport, appearing, recognized, then moving away so that there is a wake of longing almost simultaneous with recognition, like seeing the face for the first time of one who could be or will be your beloved, anywhere at a party or on the  bus, in the produce market or parking lot, or when you are driving lost in the world, but that first encounter, how could it be the first?, holds in it the seed of separation so your first glance is one of longing not for more but for what was in that one tremulous moment, held in suspension as if in a drop of rain, or a tear, and it is everything and so the world moves through us and by us and near us and in us, without us, and all this then when you are tugged back to a need for one particular action by the dog at the end of the leash and the world slows down and you are home, the key is in the lock and it is time for oatmeal and the body slows into the self that can hold itself in time, in words, a body of particular complaints, slowing, one that can take care of business, hold itself to a narrow path, the body, the self, stopped, suspended, filled with longing.

©Marty Williams, 2011

Marty works with the Bay Area Writing Project to create spaces for teachers to be writers together. An affiliate of the Amherst Writers and Artists, Marty uses AWA methods to lead writing workshops and retreats. She has published in literary magazines and in Bearing Witness: Poetry by Teachers About Teaching (Zephyr Press).

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One Response to “Morning Run with Dog by Marty Williams”

  1. Amy Gottesfeld Says:

    Beautiful Marty. I especially like the “shedding of mica chips of spirit that float and dance and sing in the air.” That’s going to stick with me.

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