Beyond the wall of windows, cherry blossoms drift high in the air. Wind outside catches the petals, setting them alight, dancing and snowing in a wind storm. Evening light falls away, pink dusk mirroring pink blossoms.
I also drift, watching them, on meds and sleep deprivation. Chronic insomniac. When do the cherry trees sleep? What do they dream of?
A downy carpet dusts the concrete heart of the city, block by block, streets of blossoms. I follow them in my drift, going where the gusts take me, tousled.
And I float past my window too.