It seems like the entire world knows how to dance except for me.
There must be a metronome that ticks the tempo right out of the torso of Mother Nature herself but I cannot seem to tune in. Everywhere around me I can see a rhythm that refuses to run through me like it somehow knows that I am always going to be that one kid left standing with my back against the gym wall and the beat is just another club that cannot afford to let any losers in.
I see the leaves—crisp hues of yellow-bleeding-into-orange, orange-bleeding-into-brown— being directed by the air that they cut as they learn to dance the American Waltz left box, right box, underarm turn, hesitation step spinning to the ground and swell approaches the shore carrying forward a small roar, energy circling from deep to shallow, waves shoaling, rising up, moving along to the Foxtrot feather step, three step, natural turn, hover cross uncurling onto the shore.
But still, after all of these years, I am here with shoulder blades pressed to cinderblocks trying to tap into the meter while I tap my toe inside of my shoe so the mountains will not shed rocks like tears that come along with steady laughter.