Some things I noticed as I left the yoga studio the other morning:
crisp air
small puffs of air from people exhaling
low clouds blanket the city but not low enought to oppress or smother -- just to hold, in breathless anticipation.
Don't you just love that word?
And all the promise it holds.
a red and white house
a hidden park
a motorcycle with painted flames for sale
high rises and daffodils on the same block
a yellow flag flapping
drooping prayer flags
tall feathery plants with no names -- or maybe one like astilbe.
The walk sign is on.
I saw a tree stubborn and clinging to masticated remains of leaves on the cusp of spring! What must he be thinking? What had him holding those leaves for so long? Fear? Grief? Anger?
My lungs feel different after yoga.
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