A cat ran across the road.
Ah, the beauty of language. What are you picturing? A svelte tabby trotting lightly across a deserted avenue?
Nothing could be farther from the truth. Words don't have meaning in and of themselves; rather, we attach meanings to them. It was no lithe feline that crossed my path. Rather, it was a burly beast that waddled across the road, corpulent rolls of blubber jiggling in rhythm to its short, speedy strides. I could easily picture it writhing in a fresh snowfall outside the door, all aortas and arteries blocked by residue from excessive servings of Little Friskies.
I couldn't help but feel a little bit like that fat cat this morning. I hadn't run in ages. Why should I? A whole arsenal of excuses lay at my disposal. My ankle hurt. It was cold. All the roads were covered in snow and ice. Swimming is better, anyway.
Well, excuses are like armpits. Everyone has them, and they all stink. I couldn't fool myself any longer, so I donned my fivefingers and set out into the frosty morning. Not only was it a glorious run, but there were birds. Two hundred and twenty of them, to be exact, of nineteen species. And one of them was a new SWSA bird--Brown Creeper. At first, I wasn't sure whether the feeble cry was that of a creeper or of my inner fat kid Marcus. I strained my ears as I ran, and it called again--but this time, I could easily tell that the vocalization was far too faint and dainty to be from Marcus.