So. I’ve developed a habit where I try to pluck a fistful of leaves – or a solitary leaf – off as many low-hanging branches on as many passing trees as I can while walking home on pretty-good Saturday nights (weather permitting). I might do it on weekdays too, or even during daylight hours if the urge has really got a grip on these twitchy digits. It’s powerful, when it hits.
One summer, I gutted the prickly bush that sat on the side of my driveway. I was much younger, but I can’t exactly remember when it happened. The bush sprawled out and a handful of stalks reached out to the sky and then curved back towards the driveway. The stalks formed bent bridges between a vibrant, green forest and the dirty blue of the asphalt.
Every time I pursued adventure, I had with me a pair of red metal shears. They were small enough to fit in my hand and be pressed together, but the blades were thick and wide.
Every day, and every day for the last couple billions of the years, the sun has risen in the east and set in the west. Bright rays of light have shone over the horizon, reaching into dark chasms and turning earth, dark and damp from the night, into warmth and soft soil. I guess we should trust the process. I guess we should let the sun rise and fall. We should sit on the shore, feet plunged into grainy bits of sand and watching the waves.
This Saturday, the world began to melt. Rays of sunlight fell down from the sky, glistening and dancing upon the shining white snow. I decided to see for myself and went for a brief run on the trails that extend past campus and into the surrounding woods. Pieces of ice gushing into pools of water filled the dirt paths that had been dry and compact in the autumn. Even the hard blocks of ice splintered into watery messes when my feet collided upon them, soaking my shoes, socks and feet into a numb chill. Some paths that ran downhill turned into streams, carryings bits of ice and sticks down the trail.