Drop me drowsy here in Springtime. My mind and heart do tremble as one. . . stop, the meter's gone and ticketing binge begins. But, oh, to cease, to stop, to park, to prod, and be moved by forces beyond mere nature. To rest, to reach, to move, to breach the still undulating surface of "freedom". Is it so, freedom, this canopy to burst? We play above in spring and summer, we tremble and tarry through crowds and smog and streets. We leave behind that which got us "here" and risk so much - though it's nothing really: an overcoat, a badge, no gun, but a pen, and iron will or quota to fulfill.
Is it so, this "freedom"? The waves rise canopy corners nearer heaven, but nearer nowhere as the horizon reaches out and risks breaking the stretch is so far. We swim, we drown, but if the water is our home what hope does breaching airy nowhere provide? But the air, this is where we first parked, and left so much behind. The air, the smog, and crowded streets is home. Immersion brings us closer - to where is not yet home, but for which we haver, and drops us where we belong, though can never be known, and can never be called "home".