I have what some people--people who fear for my well-being, mostly--consider a bad habit. I go running at night. And even shadier for those citizens whose houses I pass, my running outfit of choice is usually a dark-green camouflage hoodie cinched up tight around my face.
For, you see, were it not cinched, my poor little ears would get cold.
During my nocturnal voyages, I've been chased by loose dogs, had fireworks fired at me and heard "Run, Forrest, run!" shouted at me from drinking porches more times than I deserve (especially because I'm not half the runner Gump was). However, as I putter around The Bench at dusk, I also get to see the seasons change before my very hood. In the last week, I've been showered with catalpa leaves the size of T-shirts and pelted with nut fallout from rodents unknown. I even witnessed autumn's signature fruit: a snowmobile sprouting from the back of a pickup parked on a lawn. Can the soft "clump!" of the first moon boot be far behind?