It is an easy thing to do, on an Autumn afternoon, when the sky is bigger than you remember it ever being, and the sun, warm as it falls away toward Winter, is a thing that laughs at the wind and the tumult of the leaves ripping from the trees and the general discord of the season, to spend the day on the warm, serene side of the window watching the world shake itself loose outside and decide to nap and fold yourself in loud, vivid dreams and fill your head with the downy cotton of nappiness. It is all well and good but if it lasts too long you risk missing the smile and squint the sun and wind force your face into when you walk into them, while the clatterous music of dancing, bobbing leaves scuttles at your feet all around you.
And so groggy and sleepy-headed I let Duncan lead me to the park where, despite the rude nibble of the snow-scented wind, loud and insistent, I laughed and ran with him, held my arms out wide at my sides, unconcerned with witnesses to such dog-induced silliness, and felt my jacket pushed back tight against my body––flapping like excess skin under my arms and behind me––and imagined we'd leapt from a plane and felt both the sweet suck of gravity and the abuse and crush of the air against us as we moved down and back into the world to the safety of earth where we could run and jump and daydream some more.
Sometimes it takes wind and cold and a dancing dog to remind you what is real and important and what should be left behind on the safe side of a window.
“i thank god for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees & for the blue dreams of sky & for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.” (e.e. cummings)