It was spitting outside, a term my mother used when I was young and the rain was so scant that you couldn’t see it falling.
While spit may have a negative connotation to you, this was the angels spitting, and so the drops were holy water.
I began my run with angels’ spit on my glasses.
It was early on a Sunday morning, and I shuffled in front of Westminster High School, my car parked in the empty lot behind me. If the run went as planned, I’d be doing ten miles, looping around the grounds that connected the high school with the YMCA.