spring:

Please soak up into my bones. Revitalize me, refresh the haggard hollows I've felt growing under my eyes.

There's humidity in the air that acts as a salve for everything. We look for others to lay with on picnic blankets to stare at the clouds. Or to lay on my livingroom floor, staring up through the large windows so we only see the tree tops and can imagine we're in a forest.


Is the world really humming?


Sometimes as the sun travels down the sky it shines through my window so it could blind you. Or casts rainbows on the wall, the light being refracted from the cut glass.


I may be preemptive touting spring mid-February but I've heard birds chirp and even after six years I still don't know the weather here.


Spring forever reminds me of being nine or so, with shoulder-length brown hair, or on crunchy remnants of snow drifts. Spring is wet and confused in North Dakota. Maybe I'll see it again next year.


I wondered if I would ever go back, doubted it, but missed the prairie so much. Fall might find me in my adolescent bedroom. Which seems like a gross surrender in desperation but is not. I promise [myself]. I can only go back because I'm hoping to actually have film careersing opportunities.

There are so many lovely things always. I'll miss these canyons.