To be free and out and about and see things (trees falling, bats caving, stars rising) that the hoarded rush of mankind is to busy too ever notice.

To close one’s eyes and hear birds singing, remembering what cummings said: “whatever they sing is better than to know.”

To strip to bare essentials and soak up sun like a hungry jungle canopy never letting a single beam to dimmed floor to hit.

To let Nature be your muse and to be rest assured you’ll be accused of cavorting in the flowers and sucking on the weed(s).

To make time your very own by gauging the precision of shadows creeping and understand that the earth is just a rock in a bright light.

To shuffle through tall grass and listen to the music of one’s steps: *swoosh* *swoosh* *swoosh*

 interjecting a cadence: *swoosh**swoosh*    *swoosh**swoosh* 

and a *swoooooosh* pulse.

To wallow in the puddled tears of storms allowing one’s shoeless feet to stomp and splash the anguished  streaming liquid into a romp of silly splishiness.

To run down a hill leading to a cliff full speed all the way to the cliff edge and then simply stop.

To pound the Earth with your fists, telling Mother Nature: “I don’t like earthquakes, I don’t like earthquakes. Enough.” , knowing that for every action there a commensurate reaction.

To build no pyramids in a desert like so many Egyptian slaves yet to drink their very same sustenance—beer—while leaning against a tombstone obelisk enduring a vision of sacredly spinning for near-eternity on a rock under a bright light.