Writing again— it feels like that first warm day in Spring. The first day when you take a walk outside after a long hard winter, and you stretch your legs in the sunshine. The air is clean from the past night’s rain. The breeze keeps you fresh even as your muscles begin to warm in the sun.
Perhaps the writer starts off gingerly, unsure of the memory of the muscles that she walks with. Perhaps she looks around timidly; the neighborhood a familiar place and yet one she has not looked closely at in more than a season. Perhaps she is exhausted after only a short while, the atrophy of her muscles more obvious once they have been used again.
Or perhaps she makes a break for it—she takes off in a sprint with a wild smile on her face and she runs until she almost loses her breath—
I’m not sure which it will be.
I only know on thing; the Sparrow is emerging from her nest.