Easter Morn

The magic came at 6:25 AM.  I was 50 minutes into the run when conditions turned auspicious.  The fleshly vehicle, now properly stoked, rose to the occasion of some serious striding under the sign of a celestial conjunction:  the Moon, on the wane but still nearly full, was setting over Dinosaur Mountain just as  Old Sol began his ascent over the Superstitions.  The heavy rains of the day before had released the subtle scents of the desert.  Their dominant note was supplied by the tiny oily dark green leaves of the creosote bush.  The palo verdes were in bloom.  The body rose, but receded, to enable that peculiar awareness in which one is Emerson's "transparent eyeball" witnessing Santayana's realm of essence.  There seemed in that moment nothing better to be than a transparent transcendental eyeball running down a road.