Bridges, paths, even fence rows, make my feet itch. They ask to be traveled, and my feet yearn to follow.
Yet here I stay, trapped inside a room, telling stories that happen out there: out in the wild, out in space, out beyond the known.
Spring isn’t quite here yet, but I sleep with the window open just a crack, cover up with a leaf-patterned comforter, and imagine the bare limbs outside the window are covered in green. There’s a creek below my window, and the sun sets beyond, warm light reflecting in the water.
Time to take the camera on a field trip, and store up new sights, new stories.
I close the windows and trap the sound outside,
wishing Spring wore running shoes
for a marathon rather than the mad dash it usually makes,
infecting winter-weary souls
with a fever cured only by its cause–
sun addicts chasing their supplier.
c. 2005, KB