A study in lines along the Cotton Belt Trail.

Straight lines go too quickly to appreciate the pleasures of the journey. They rush straight to their target and then die in the very moment of their triumph without having thought, loved, suffered or enjoyed themselves. ~ Rene Crevel

Not exactly what Gadora was pondering as I traversed Colleyville’s Cotton Belt Trail during a recent early morning jog, but the happy stalls in exercise allowed a deep observation of the lines along the trail. The rising sun made its mark along the way.

I’ve been working on the…

The sun rose slowly as I, and it, heated up the trail. There really wasn’t much in the way of nature, but I was determined to find the beauty.

Hot water.

Gadora was only a quarter way into the run, and already wished I had remembered to bring my own water. But the trail stretched flat out in front of me for as long as my eyes could focus, so I’d be keeping on.

Feel the power.

Power lines played against the emerging morning sky.

A fine sign.

I meandered along the desolate, meandering trail head… snapping pics along the way. Kept running, but was heated. I paused often. The sun was blaring and it felt like a month of Sunday’s since I’d actually taken a good, long run. An intersection approached. And I was quite pleased it was at the crossroads of Pleasant Run and Stop. It was my sign to turn it around, and take it home.

My friend.

The Cotton Belt Trail is smack dab in the middle of Middle America. And save for the one cow, and one ass (you’ll see her next), there was hardly another soul on the trail. I paused to chat Miss Patty up, and observed the lines along the grass between us. She was apprehensive, and a few hurled niceties wouldn’t convince her to bring it over.

Hello Sweet Ass.

This lone ass along the trail was shadowed. There were no lines around her, but I snapped her mug anyway. Upon further review, there appeared magic in the lines of her ears. She didn’t have time for me, or my small talk, but I enjoyed our interaction none-the-less.

The Little Red Caboose.

Speaking of backsides, I paused a(nother) moment to bask in the shiny red of Brandsford Park’s caboose. It took a wading through the misty morning grass, and an empty railroad crossing, to get to it. The sun glistened off her exterior, and for a moment her story consumed me.

Double Lines.

Making my way back towards my Sister’s place, I noticed this pair of transmission towers. An average jogger might not recognize the beauty in their latticed structures. Birds fluttered off their lines and chirped hello to both me and the morning.

Along the way…

Initially, I felt a little silly bringing my phone along the trail. I couldn’t seriously run with it in tow. But it was to be a good, long walk/run after all. And as the trail was quietly desolate, I ran as if no one was watching. I paused to snap pics as if studying Civil Engineering. And no one was there to stop me.

Swedish artist Paul Klee might have said it best, “A line is a dot that went for a walk.”

 

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