It whispers to one who listens. It shines for those who look.
It calls to the one who passes by. If you’re brave, you can hear it.
The melody of freedom.
The sound is far away, but the gate is close, and closed.
Will you open it?
What way will you choose?
How hard it is to remain in the moment when it feels different than we planned.
Do you remember the joy of climbing a tree as a child?
The victory of your ascent with each higher branch, the view above and feeling the breeze with the leaves?
Did you ever meet a bird or a squirrel in their lofty domain?
Did the sun shine through dancing layers of green and did your fingers get sticky from syrupy goo on the trunk?
Maybe you scratched your hands and knees getting up.
Clouds are murky things.
When they touch the ground, the ominous become animosity and suddenly you are surrounded by fog.
Fog is a scary thing.
It makes you question everything you ever thought was real.
Your eyes deceive you. Your hands are hidden in front of you. The busy sidewalk becomes a warzone. You bump into a fire hydrant and injure your leg, hardly missing walking onto the road and getting hit by a double decker bus.