His lips parted, a single word slipped out into the thick warm air; tiny pools of humidity beaded above his top lip, clinging to the invisible hairs below his nostrils. The sky burned with golden light, rays bouncing off the surrounding birch branches; pealing paper, natures notepad revealing words written in the bark.

 

Running a hand across his upper lip he wiped back the beading sweat, brushing it against his leg he reached his wilted hand above his head, grasping a branch between his fingers, and feeling the rough edges bite the soft skin of his palm. Swinging a second arm up to meet the first, he let his feet lift off the ground swinging beneath his body; he rocked back and forth, his head lifted to meet the last golden rays he swung freely, lightly, buoyant as if floating over water.

 

I stood near by, an on-looker lost in the childish innocence of a grown man casting off his inhibitions. To enjoy the richness of a moment normally forsaken by age; I wished earnestly for cameras behind my eye lids that I might capture this scene and freeze it in time, to take the picture out years from now and remind myself what being alive looks like. I wondered where he came from, this man of light and laughter, robbed of his afflictions, freed from bondage.

 

A pile of dress cloths lay near the tree where he swung; a tie loosened and thrown to the grass, a suit jacket rumpled and dirty, forgotten articles of a dismembered life. He threw back his head, erupting with belly-deep laughter, creases forming around the soft edges of his eyes as his features smiled. The late summer breeze brought relief as it rippled through the branches, ruffling his once neat hair; he lifted his face as if to greet it, like an old friend stirring up memories.

 

He had this joy, I can’t explain it, it was as if he had found something once lost, the sweetness of life we all know as a child, the pure breath of wonder tainted and tarnished and scared by the hands of life. This man! Of what appeared to be an affluent background, where was his reserve, his cool superiority and subtle submission?

 

Sweaty by the will of the heat wave, dirty of his own accord, leaves stuck within his golden hair, bare feet acting as an anchor to ground him in the sky; eyes, wild as they were fierce, laughing with the trees as he lifted higher into their branches. He played, and the world played with him.

 

By Riah Raine

His lips parted, a single word slipped out into the thick warm air; tiny pools of humidity beaded above his top lip, clinging to the invisible hairs below his nostrils. The sky burned with golden light, rays bouncing off the surrounding birch branches; pealing paper, natures notepad revealing words written in the bark.

Running a hand across his upper lip he wiped back the beading sweat, brushing it against his leg he reached his wilted hand above his head, grasping a branch between his fingers, and feeling the rough edges bite the soft skin of his palm. Swinging a second arm up to meet the first, he let his feet lift off the ground swinging beneath his body; he rocked back and forth, his head lifted to meet the last golden rays he swung freely, lightly, buoyant as if floating over water.

I stood near by, an on-looker lost in the childish innocence of a grown man casting off his inhibitions. To enjoy the richness of a moment normally forsaken by age; I wished earnestly for cameras behind my eye lids that I might capture this scene and freeze it in time, to take the picture out years from now and remind myself what being alive looks like. I wondered where he came from, this man of light and laughter, robbed of his afflictions, freed from bondage.

A pile of dress cloths lay near the tree where he swung; a tie loosened and thrown to the grass, a suit jacket rumpled and dirty, forgotten articles of a dismembered life. He threw back his head, erupting with belly-deep laughter, creases forming around the soft edges of his eyes as his features smiled. The late summer breeze brought relief as it rippled through the branches, ruffling his once neat hair; he lifted his face as if to greet it, like an old friend stirring up memories.

He had this joy, I can’t explain it, it was as if he had found something once lost, the sweetness of life we all know as a child, the pure breath of wonder tainted and tarnished and scared by the hands of life. This man! Of what appeared to be an affluent background, where was his reserve, his cool superiority and subtle submission?

Sweaty by the will of the heat wave, dirty of his own accord, leaves stuck within his golden hair, bare feet acting as an anchor to ground him in the sky; eyes, wild as they were fierce, laughing with the trees as he lifted higher into their branches. He played, and the world played with him.

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