Stepping into the park, after it rained the previous night, is like stepping on a path that has been set aflame. The rain has unburdened the Gulmohar of their red and yellow flowers, which lay strewn all along the path, like a carpet in your honour, that has been set on fire cause you would be burning it up with your pace, no matter it may be.
Everywhere you look, everything you see, looks so fresh, shiny and new. The rains has washed off summer’s grime, leaving everything looking fresh and clean. Everything seems to appear gleaming and shining till dust once again sets on them.
The smell of wet mud fills your nostrils, intoxicating your senses, fueling your runner’s high. And though it may stick to your shoes, cakes of mud clinging to it, refusing to let go no matter how much you may drag your feet, the only time you’re allowed to do so and not be a bad thing, leaving behind a trail of muddy footprints, your footprint on the damp mud.
You see tiny streamlets, not yet a gushing stream, but far from a roaring rapid, sufficient to have a flow, to make it through the fallen twigs and leaves, downwards flowing, to a watering hole, or meeting up with a fellow streamlet to become a bigger stream, washing away anything that may come in its way.
You see droplets of water on the leaves, glistening in the light of the morning sun, refracting the light, bursting into a prismic rainbow, a remembrance, a memory, of the rain that bathed the world previous night. Adding to the allure of nature, the beauty of nature, adorning her like no accessories can.
You feel light headed and giddy, cause you’ve got that runner’s high. The freshness of nature freshening up your senses, making you feel all shiny and new like the nature around you. You can’t help but go hopping and bounding, hippity-hop, sprinting and leaping, splashing and sploshing down the carpeted path, with a joy-filled, gleeful heart, hoping that it will rain while you have fun on the run.
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