It’s the kind of day when spring comes slow and hazy, but the river rolls rough. I ran across the suspension bridge, the milky jade liquid unsettled, surface shattered with white shards as the wind rasped against the current.

I ran because when other joggers pass me as I stand at the halfway point, in a vain attempt to overcome stomach flutters of vertigo or possibly the desire to jump, I can feel the bridge’s barely perceptible bounce with the weight of their running footsteps. So I ran, too, although I could not feel the bounce caused by my own rhythmic motion.

I ran in between raindrops, past the barest bulge of willow buds at the end of long bare branches, through the arched curve of tree branches, under the steel grey sky. Some days feel like the clouds have descended to earth.