Freshly Dusted

My feet dance for me, pulling me rushing across the empty expanse of grass. "The quickest path is a straight line," a textbook echoes in my mind. Then I fly, cutting my own path through the thicket of imagination. My path doesn't vary between grass or cement, it twists and turns, carving itself as I run. Then I am there, and I don't look back....most of the time. Once, I happened to turn back and look behind me at the path I had blazed, and I saw the grass springing back into place, as if my giant footstep hadn't affected it in the least. I wondered if this was the effect I had on everything and everyone in my life.
The next day, beaten down, forced to choose between one life and another, I pick my way slowly across the cement, following the beaten path already set out before me, unwilling to make my own just to watch it disappear.

There is a blue jay sitting on the fence. My heart lifts up with its wings as it flutters to the scrubby grass. It cocks its head and glares at me as if to say, "I'm boss here, not you." From behind the window I stare, face pressing close to the glass. I linger there for a moment, until a harsh, obtrusive voice calls me away. I am almost gone, but I allow myself one last glance out the window at the unfolding landscape before me and to savor the sight of the glowing, morning light resting on the blue jay's wings. It flies away then, and where it goes no-one will ever know. I long to fly away with it, to be freed from all cares and worries. For a moment, I let myself dream. Then, the dream is gone, and I leave.