He ran among the butterflies but didn’t know what they meant. He ran and kept an eye open for deer, but he only saw them when he wasn’t looking.
He would decide on a time and a distance and sometimes a speed. He would sit on the stairs and put on his shoes, then open the door and go out. He would look at his watch, look at the sky and then he would start running. Slowly at first. Then with more of a rhythm. And by the time he reached the fields he would feel good. And the fields would look different every day. The rape would glimmer and glisten with yellow, except for the concave belly of the field that would blush green. And then even that would turn yellow and the whole field would soak him in its colour. And the corn would look gold one day and white the next. And the poppies were like a trail of blood around its edge. And he would run across the fields and sometimes a farmer would be there ploughing or reaping or bagging or something. But usually not. And sometimes someone would be walking their dog. Or there would be kids sitting at the bottom of the field by the cattle trough. But usually he would go unnoticed.
Except for the butterflies. In summer, the red admirals would appear at the edge of the rape fields. He didn’t know why. They would land on the hard, cracked, brown earth path that skirted the field and he would try not to step on them. They seemed to know he was there. Some of them flew alongside him for a while. He tried to avoid them, but sometimes he saw them late and he was never sure if they lifted off in time to avoid his footfall. He didn’t want to kill any of them. He wanted to find harmony with them.
He cut a corridor through the air, retracing the purposeful journeys of silent generations with his purposeless, silent one of today. In towns and villages, he kept to the back alleys and passageways, passing through communities without touching or changing them; the child, the animal inside him, at play; the man on the outside still clamped in seriousness.
He liked to think that he was getting back to nature when he ran, and he was gratified on his first few ventures into the fields when he saw a deer now and again. After that, he always looked for deer, like a talisman of nature to press into the pages of his running diary. But they were never there when he looked for them, only when he didn’t. Places where he’d seen them several times before yielded nothing, and just when he knew that he would not see one today, and he had given up (because he was getting back nearer houses, the sort of places where deer wouldn’t go,) one would dash across his path, or bound away through the long grass.
After a while he realised what was happening and smiled to himself. So then he would run and try not to look. And he would try not to hope to see. But he never saw them – not until he forgot he was trying not to look, and forgot he was trying not to hope to see.