I looked out the window at some point this afternoon and — realizing it was a beautiful day — set out on a walk (a march?). Sometimes it's necessary to force oneself out the door. Or window, as it were. Out, shoo, git.
I didn't git far: just from town down to First Beach, where I sat with my back against the wall in a sheltered spot on a rock thinking it felt almost warm enough to shed a few layers — hat and mittens anyway — and be reminded that spring would/will come again.
About the time I was convinced — to the point of loosening my scarf and unzipping my jacket halfway — a torn, brown leaf fluttered down out of nowhere and landed on the thigh of my jeans. It surprised me actually. Where had it come from? There weren't any trees around. Yet there it sat. While I sat. Amid the wreckage of tumbled rocks, aspiring sea glass, mangled clam shells and empty egg cases as cars whizzed past, heard but not seen, above and behind me on Memorial.
I'll admit to being relieved when the leaf finally blew off, at which point I got up and marched back home again ....
