Before the Gloaming

It was almost 7 p.m. when I parked the car on Soapstone Drive. There are pull-outs there for trail access, for bluebell viewing in April and sultry strolls in July.

This was for the latter. It was impromptu and it was divine.

I slipped off my jacket, laced up the pair of spare running shoes I keep in the back and took off on an almost empty Reston trail.

I walked east, and the air sung around me. Crickets were tuning up for their evening chorus and the swamp radiated with heat and insect buzz.

Fifteen minutes in I joined the Cross-County Trail, my first time on it in months. I walked across a bridge that smells of creosote, spotted a stand of Black-eyed Susans in the meadow.

It was Thursday. Light was golden before the gloaming. I was almost home.