The morning comes at me in sideways, frenzied swirls; urging the heart to beat faster and the pace to quicken.

It’s energy dissipates into crystallized coatings of sugar and ice cream, covering a path that is the same yet treacherously deceiving; beckoning to run and frolic like a setter after a leaf.

The stride is low and measured with a bounce of flowing possibilities, somehow dismissing the bald, slick mountain orb that holds no one; that holds our existence like glue.

Patterns emerge under a delightful artist notion, layers upon layers, textures melding with form, colors yearning to find their own personality; creating itself from a falling idea.

Tendrils of fluid, wispy inquisitiveness seek to insert their purpose onto the canvas; like rivers of rolling acrylic from the oversaturated master brush. White and grayish drips making their way to an authentic resting place with delving curiosity and untethered adventure.

Cracks, shrieks of cold anguish across the water; or is it chortles of delight at the incessant rage of an unsatisfied bluster?

The force is at my back, not to push and mold me but to buffet the noise from the useless chatter; to comfort and warm like a soothing bundle of goose down without a floor.