the air is warm, and the sky is paying homage to the Mets, with huge, wide brush-strokes of orange against the electric blue of this twilight sky.

the neighbors are out again. there are a dozen of them, at least. meandering, wandering, lazily, dreamily, around, around, around.  They do not speak to one another; this is a silent reverie. i hear only the low hum of normal suburbia, a screeching bluejay somewhere near. i watch as they float, their wings catching pockets of warm air and lifting, lifting, requiring no movement except the open embrace of the sky.

breathing in, I join them high above. The sun on my face, borne aloft by the gentle breeze, meandering, wandering, around, around, around.

breathing out, I embrace the laundry that waits patiently at my feet.