spring.

I want to go for a short hike through Provo canyon; watch the small creek bubble past, and remember what quiet feels like. No one telling me where to go. It's a simple matter of following my feet, and using my eyes to take in the views.


I want to sit by a river and simply talk. I would pick up a smooth stone and rub it between my fingers a little before attempting to skip it across the rippled water. Maybe look a little deeper into the river to see if anything lives there. And then I'd take off my socks and dip my toes in, because it's wet.
I want to go to the top of a hill as the sun gets lower in the sky. I'd have my camera with me to show my friends what I've seen, but it's impossible to capture an infinite sky into pixels. I would be the only person to see the sunset I see.
I want to run through a park with bare feet, catching a frisbee or simply playing tag. Running through the small, cool blades of grass reminds me of something – nothing specific, but simply a connection that this feeling is important. So I run faster.
I want to pop off dandelion heads and race them down that small stream by the street, and see which one wins. And then I'd go back to the top, and start over. The race doesn't mean anything, but the races mean everything.
I want to coast on a bike under the cool shade of the trees that have burst into a green canopy from suffocating all winter.
I want to take a small net, capture small bugs and let them go. I'd catch one, and let it go. Catch another, stare at it a bit, then let it go.
I want to take an entire loaf of bread and throw them towards ducks for hours on end. I'd name them, one by one, and eventually pick a favorite one. I'd decide its personality and its story in life. Another small bit of bread would fly towards the duck, even though I stay completely still.
I turn to look for who-

I don't know who would be there, by my side.