Wild storms yesterday. This morning, the sun's not risen yet but the sky above is fresh and clear. The trails beneath my feet are all mud, grit, mess and flooding. A stone picnic spot down by the river looks suspicious somehow - too perfect, too smooth and flawless. I peel off the track and approach. Normally I would take a flying leap down the steps, but today I step out gingerly. My shoe sinks an inch in deep sludge, skids a little. Fearful of slipping, I pick my way out to the railing over the river, a line of squelching footprints in my wake. There's something satisfying about being the first, about leaving my mark in the muck. It's like leaving the first footprints on an untouched beach - only less romantic. I can't bear to spoil them. I clamber my way along the railings back to the bank, and scramble up to the track. One line of prints left in the mud, with no return. I run on.
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