In the summertime there is a distinct breeze that floats along when the weather is just so and the sky is a hazy shade of blue. It is a soft, scooping wind, one that’s smooth like the inner crevice of an ocean-licked seashell. This breeze is the kind that cups your skin in the palm of its touch, and feels effortless and loving. It’s difference from other winds is like the distance between an intent and heartfelt kiss and one that is pushy and lustful. This breeze shakes only the tops of the trees, and but flutters through your hair, never shaking it loose or mussing it up – it is a lazy breeze from across the bay, the Summer Wind sung to by Frank and felt in this moment by my pen and my skin as I sit out on the porch and watch green leaves dance lackadaisically.

I’m glad I’ve slowed down enough to see this, feel this, because so often I forget to. My writing repeatedly takes the form of analytical exploration and as such, I am always hashing things out in my mind in order to cogently connect them into strings of sentences. But right now I’m right here and have only the power to write of what I see and who I am in this very instant – girl set out on a blue porch, pink sneakers up on the railing, and ice cubes clacking in her glass.