Monday January 9, 2017
My vertebrae yawn at the sun in the soft way that waking children might welcome new days. My feet step into sunny beginnings with the ritual reverence of singing birds. My lungs take the light in as an old tree would. There is nothing to accomplish and everything to reach for. I ask wisdom of the sky with a sudden gaze. It answers my prayers with a single seagull in sacred flight who assures me the shore is not far. It prompts me to fly as I lie on the ground then asks me to stay as I wander away.
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