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Cold. Tense. Jovial.

Looking out to NY state and feeling helplessly enamored by natures bountiful gifts.

Each mountain I stand on brings a new possibility; a new kind of love into my soul.

It’s cold. The air is dry. And the bridge is icy.

Each light wind that tugs at my hair urges me to forgive.

The songs in my head hold hands with the melody of the little bird that just whisked by.

The sun-moon flickers like lights on dying Christmas tree.

If I remove the sensation of the winter cold, it would be a spring day.

It is spring for I am just leaving the nest.

My ribs are aching from where my wings are starting to protrude.

It’s a painfully beautiful, enticing kind of feeling.

Will I learn to fly as I once did in my home continent of Africa?

Will I dance with the coyotes during morning prayer?

The wind is back, the cold wind, urging me back into my reality. My body.

Lately, my reality resembles dream-like states of euphoria. I cannot conceive how the rest of the world lives.

At the moment, I think I will just sit and admire this NY mountain once more. There is no insurance for the ill-traveler. No peaceful dwelling for those motivated by sweet silence.

I hear the hum of the bird from earlier.

Hmmmmm…mmmmm..mmm..mmm..

I hum along strangely content with holding my own tune.

It’s quiet, inconspicuous, and deeply soulful tune. It trails off at times.

And finishes with a nod acknowledging it’s very energy.

Hmmm..mm..