Equinox
BecketThe morning before the equinox, Father Becket Hess says his prayers and goes for a run, a long one over the trails, running through the trees as the fog gradually stirs into a more civilized kind of drizzle, breaking through the woods and into open moorland just as the sun makes a fretful sort of appearance between the clouds. From up on Riddon Ridge he looks down into the green dip below, still swathed in stubborn fog, and listens to the sheep complain about whatever they complain about, and catches his breath in long, sawing inhales.
He’s wet and tired and it’ll be another wet and tiring three miles back, but he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t crave the discomfort like he might have just a couple months ago. He doesn’t require the punishment or the misery or the pai
