A Morning Walk

I step out into the quiet hush of a gray-blue morning. Sun rays are peeking over a distant cloud, the sky is not yet fully awake. Snow is falling slowly, lightly, as if someone has gently flicked the snowglobe of the city with wool-covered fingertips. All the benches and tables I cross are covered and empty. The dead remain asleep while everyone else is hungover or stuck in a gluttonous stupor. There isn’t a single crumb on the ground for the taking. Still, the birds are up and singing. A squirrel is hiding his finds beneath a pile of leaves. The crows above are twirling like cloud dancers.

I walk and catch myself bending my turns around corners, so I can linger a little bit longer. The cold invigorates me, refreshes me, reminds me that I’m alive, that there are forces in my body constantly fighting an inevitable end. A thought crosses me: it’s a matter of perspective. From stars to neurons, from neurons to silt. Transformations all around us. Everything everywhere all at once. Not far from me, someone is throwing seeds onto the ground. Will the wrens find them before they bud? I walk by and hold her good morning in my chest.

The colorful apartments I pass are more beautiful against the gray. What will I miss most when I leave this place? Elsewhere someone is surely walking around the lake. An image of You floats through awareness. We’re walking, admiring the naked crowns of trees, the soft colors of the landscape. I envelop myself within it like a child in need of a blanket. A line from Past Lives reaches me: It’s true that if you leave you lose things, but you also gain things, too. I walk back to my apartment. The sky is glistening. You dream in a language I can’t understand. It’s like there’s this whole place inside of you I can’t go.