Neither rain

Fresh summer rain. Marathon in six weeks. Gotta do the miles. Running shoes squish and suck all the way down the empty trail to the lakes. The few other runners wave in solidarity. One reaches out for a high-five, shouts “Fuck the weather!” with a grin. But the rain patters on the trail, on the leaves of the ash trees, on Lake Calhoun, like a thousand running feet.

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