Late: Night Walks and Summer Arrivals
Walking in sandals for two and a half hours is not recommended. I went out last night for a little adventure, a walk around town. I get in a mood sometimes where I just want to be out in the city at night. It was warm and the breeze was just cool enough. It was the first time that I really felt like it was a summer night, the first night I felt like there was summer in the full branches of the trees.
There were more people out and about than I thought there would be. Older people walking about town at midnight, going from place to place or probably home. More proof that it really is summer; people walking about that late, going out that late and coming home exhausted to creep beneath their sheets together, to sleep the way couples can only sleep in summer, sheetless and together. Their old, familiar, love making me a little wistful. Wondering where my body will rest in summers to come and if company will present itself. Convinced some day I'll wake early to read with tea at a table, watching sun up, cook someone breakfast. Realizing the time I've got for this to happen grows shorter every day.
After a walk over my hill and through the guts of the town, looping around work to bring back some movies, the soles of my feet were burning, felt splintered. Walking through the Glynmill Inn trail I felt possessed by the desire to wade into the stream, to stand in the cold muscle of the water, feel it flex about me. Be cooled there in its liquid grip (and not be attacked by swans, hopefully). Something about night-swimming has always held appeal for me. The sort of sense-deprivation of submerging into warm water at night. The absolute blackness of it, moving about you, the only sense.
Now I'm left with the faint red streaks of blisters on my feet where arches should be. A stinging in my step to remind me about my poor choice of adventuring footwear. And I am about ready to take a blanket outside, into the sun, and a book. Take advantage of the sun after what seems like three months of rain and poor weather.
There were more people out and about than I thought there would be. Older people walking about town at midnight, going from place to place or probably home. More proof that it really is summer; people walking about that late, going out that late and coming home exhausted to creep beneath their sheets together, to sleep the way couples can only sleep in summer, sheetless and together. Their old, familiar, love making me a little wistful. Wondering where my body will rest in summers to come and if company will present itself. Convinced some day I'll wake early to read with tea at a table, watching sun up, cook someone breakfast. Realizing the time I've got for this to happen grows shorter every day.
After a walk over my hill and through the guts of the town, looping around work to bring back some movies, the soles of my feet were burning, felt splintered. Walking through the Glynmill Inn trail I felt possessed by the desire to wade into the stream, to stand in the cold muscle of the water, feel it flex about me. Be cooled there in its liquid grip (and not be attacked by swans, hopefully). Something about night-swimming has always held appeal for me. The sort of sense-deprivation of submerging into warm water at night. The absolute blackness of it, moving about you, the only sense.
Now I'm left with the faint red streaks of blisters on my feet where arches should be. A stinging in my step to remind me about my poor choice of adventuring footwear. And I am about ready to take a blanket outside, into the sun, and a book. Take advantage of the sun after what seems like three months of rain and poor weather.