Élodie ran with cranes.
Élodie walked in rhythm, her bag on her shoulder, her eyes unfocused, her mind—somewhere. The cranes and whales, the marshes, the sky and oceans: she worried about them.
Élodie ran with cranes. She ran along the shores with breaching whales, and once, with whales, beneath the churning waves. Élodie ran on creosote, on smooth-worn stones. She splashed through sodden rushes, through salt reed grass. From there, away, you might see a head above the stems, dark hair lifting and falling. Close, you might see and hear her. Élodie’s running sang. Her shoulder blades, her breastbone, her floating heels: in motion she was music.
The mother of the running girl kept a boarding house, a busy kitchen, a room to culture, press, and ferment. In the mornings, early, Élodie ran to the yeast and ginger sellers. On her way home she walked, and there was music in her walk. Her shoulder blades, her clavicle, her wrists: they were a song—and a worry. A sw…