Portland skies reach up to the exosphere; the ceiling does not exist.
Sunshine lands upon every surface, a gentle warming hug.
Just shy of noon on a Friday, a summer vacation escape.
A Granny Smith apple-crisp day of fifty-five percent humidity
— and seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit —
enables outdoor revelry not experienced at home.
A different planet than the swampy grey of August in the District,
where we breaststroke through our soaked cotton ball air, not the Potomac.
It's the type of day where I can breathe in and out without wheezing,
draw atmosphere into my lungs, feel oxygen molecules
infuse my blood without obstacle or malice,
like at home where every outdoor venture is a recipe for shortness of breath.
This day opens up and welcomes, nudges me into the light.
I unfold my limbs, imaginary solar panels, recharging under cloudless azure.
The sun fashions me an invisible banana bag IV, replenishing me at the soulular level.
