Dust in the wind

I was already a third of the way through my run before I reached what I had really set out for. To the north of town, at the end of 2nd west is a concrete trail. It runs along the tracks for about a half mile, ending in a bridge that crosses the Teton River and a path on the other side that leads to the backside of the Rex.

As I measured out my steps, trying to breathe methodically so as to suck in as much oxygen as possible with every breath, I could feel the stitches starting. My throat was thick and tight, in the way that makes me wonder if I had asthma, despite knowing I don't. A batch of mucus had formed in my mouth, and I swallowed, hoping to coat my quickly-drying throat.

The tracks to my left grew closer to the path, and the tank cars that had been stored out here loom black and tall, like so many elephants lined up, clutching to the tail of his predecessor. I crossed a small bridge that runs over an irrigation canal.

I passed a field, now, that was once the site that of a lumber mill. Wood was brought there from all over the state, the location next to the tracks all too convenient for that, to be processed and then shipped off once more. When the Teton Dam broke in 1976, however, it wiped the mill out. Now all that remains are a few concrete foundations, rusted-out oil barrels, scattered collections of ancient-looking wood. I wondered, if the Dam had never broken, what this field would look like — if the lumber mill would still be standing and running, or if it would have been converted into convenience stores and office buildings.

Kansas shuffled up in my ear buds just as I approached the bridge that spans the Teton River. The steel was rusted red, but sturdy. If I looked west, I saw the fading skyline, the bridge just a couple hundred feet downriver that carries the tracks from one side of the river to the other. I stopped, noting how if I stood just right, I could get the effect of a streak of light, running down the rive, reflected up at me.

Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky,

It slips away.

And all your money won't another minute buy.

All we are is dust in the wind.

I laid on the bridge, flat against it. The sky above me was cut with clouds. I pulled out my headphones, and just breathed. I noticed I could hear the water, the sound of millions of molecules collectively flopping end over end between the banks. Crickets chirped, not too loudly just yet, but with the charming significance of the space between spring and summer. I felt suspended, as if levitating above the water, the steel suddenly thin air, but just as supportive.

I hung there in that minute. It wouldn't last forever, but for now, it's all I had — and it was lovely.