I can almost draw the lines

During my run today, plugged in and stripped down to a tshirt by the time I hit the Nature Park trail, I looked up and my tipped head seemed to slide my senses together. The sun, when it comes out here in winter, is dazzling and physical and disorienting and it hits everything at once. As I turned the corner on the path, I couldn't feel the headphones-- the music seemed internal. Sun struck through moss high in skinny trees and lichen abandoned on the ground-- a surrounding of great green glowing life. Even through slow-motion drips of slushy rain, the sun's touch made my skin warm and I had the sudden impulse to lift my arms for its embrace to wrap around my waist and pull me closer. I wanted to remove clothes to let the sun-touch in.

This is the effect of the return of forgotten sunlight. It floods your veins and shakes you loose from reality's one dimension.

After this run, walking back to my desk, a private song plays in my ears as my long earrings tinkle like a metallic brook with each step I take. I turn my ears and then eyes up to the heartbeat thump of wings pushing air aside as geese swoop overhead in a textbook V formation. Tattoos patch the wet concrete where leaves have given up their ghosts. Each ginger lift of a foot is a a sensation I can't dull on its path up my nervous system to my brain.

Am I a simpleton to be so stunned? These corporeal pleasures are the only stories I have to share. Everything else wilts in comparison.