It’s like releasing a song, this first day of summer.
You can hear it in her eyes, wide and distant, dreaming. You can hear it in the hands, describing in the air all the things they want to do: We’ll build a teepee, a bow and arrow. No. We’ll climb that rock, that big one. And we’ll jump off, because why not? Ooh, and we’ll take a train, you and me, and we’ll crisscross the west until we see mustangs.
It knows little of bank accounts or time, this song. It cares not for your schedules or your plans, for all the places you need to be. It rises, instead, from some depths where the rest of the year cannot touch, where sit down or raise your hands please or who knows the answer don’t exist.
It keeps rising, this wild songdrift, and carries with it an almost visceral ache to do something with a year’s backlogged dreams of just doing nothing, and soon, if you’re really lucky, you find yourself humming along.