I squint at swaying treetops and wish I could volley overhead like the wind does. Or scamper from branch to bowing branch like the squirrels do. They remind me of restless children bounding on beds, waking every sleepyhead.
The hawks hover. They barely pump their wings; they just harness the air like a sail, and veer back and forth. Their movements remind me of kites in an indigo sky.
I wish I was a better whistler; I’d call to the birds and try to join their banter. I’ve attempted to talk to many an animal by mimicking their call. I assume they are not fooled, as such keen connoisseurs of sound and pitch. But I still find my grownup self trying to tap into their high society. How very Cinderella of me.
I kick a few loose rocks and startle a salamander. I feel like an ogre disrupting such tranquility; yet I, too, am scurrying along this zig-zag path in search of such. Or, will this just lead me around in circles? I’ve made enough rings around empty space to rival Saturn. I have to believe I’m headed somewhere. If not somewhere, then perhaps unto something…or someone.
Today, I’d be content with a breadcrumb trail that bids me the way to go. I’m privy to this much: it’s most likely onward and upward, as all worthwhile destinations are.
Those boomerangs for birds share secrets like this, I bet. If they instinctively know to fly south with every cold snap, then surely they know the way through less than tolerable seasons. Too bad I never have figured out their vernacular…