Running

I run downhill over jagged, loose rocks in rattlesnake country on a military base.  I feel like Dexter Filkins, the famous New York Times journalist who wrote about his daily runs during his two and a half year stint in Baghdad. Instead of passing through checkpoints, I run past signs that warn danger from artillery fire and forbid pets in certain areas. 

I run, hearing the thunder of artillery in the distance. I run, imagining what Filkins must have felt, the release one gets when in motion, free from dilemmas that bind us to stress.  I run, laughing quietly to myself because I am a slow runner. I am simply a hopeful journalist, a Filkins wannabe. I am only following the footsteps of other runners who have already worn out this trail.