A Girl Named Leney

THE JOURNAL

A Winter Morning

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i reach the end of the shadows and that is when i feel the sun warming my back, reaching me finally, as it had crept higher than the trees.

i feel its heat through the worn wool grey sweater i often wear (admittedly one of the more unflattering pieces in my wardrobe and yet something i've held onto for eight years now. which is a thing i am always fighting—my attachment to material things).

the suns fingers slide down my body, starting at my hair, falling down my back, slipping down my calves and then being kicked off by my heels.

the shush-shush sound of my jeans, my Mothers jeans with various time-worn holes, is the closest sound to me.

next to it the stray rocks my feet kick as they walk, next to that the birds above my head, then the wind playing with the grass and trees, then the distant sound of a truck on an unmarked road and then, further still: a barking dog.

it is these sounds that i've learned to be attentive to, to hear and enjoy and recognize as enough, in lieu of music or words playing into my ears.

it's beautiful to listen to.

the waking-up of the world.

a witnessing of the slow graduation of night into day.

then--a shot of copper.

the fox was one smooth line, as it sped across the road from the cannon of the field. uninterrupted, linear, both in its physique and its destination.

seeing the sun shine on his back as he ran somehow brought more joy than feeling the sun warm my own.

on the left, always on the left, for what is routinely just shy of an hour.

i let my mind wander.

thoughts unrestricted. unkept. unruly.

(words that could also be assigned to my hair)

a sort of inward dialogue with myself.

it's calming, starting my days this way. letting the things my senses bring to my attention pour in and out of me without needing to measure or quantify or justify or dictate or document or list.

to let them.... be.