A walk

I am not too sure as how to structure this post. I don't have a clear intro and creative piece, so I will just push forward!

I have started working at a downtown location of the coffee shop I work for. It's a small local chain you see and the managers, both new and old, were nice enough to let me transfer from Trumansburg to Ithaca. The walk is a bit farther because I don't live in a village of 1,500 people anymore and, because it's Ithaca, involves a hill. I walked up the hill today, realizing I need the exercise in the wake of my organic pop tart diet. OK, fine, organic toaster pastries diet. I love organic junk food, it's a tasty mind bender!

As I walked up the West Hill, I realized how hot it was. Last winter seemed to sputter and sprout over the past five months. A big wet blast at the beginning of April and then sunshine. It felt like a summer day and the thermometer on the bank's big rotating clock read 92 degrees Fahrenheit! I don't know how accurate those bank thermometers are, but it was still hot.

The heat here seems to crackle. After winter, the buds break and flowers explode with noises that none of us can here. However, we can feel them, and even make out a faint whisper, like when a twig sheds a flake of bark under the sun's rays. The heat back home seems to simmer, a comforting white noise. To get all biochemical on you, the heat back home seems like ATP, omnipresent and endless, repeating itself minute after minute with only slight variations in intensity. However, the heat here is adrenaline, rushes of blood and those falling dreams.

I am more aware while walking here. I am out of shape and breathe heavy when climbing hills. I take in deep breaths of each flower and the mowed grass. I never really smelled flowers till I ca here. Never really smelled that powdery honey smell coming from bursts of blooming cherries. I believe the tropical flowers to simply be out of aromas, catering to year-long pollinators. Walking helps because in a car yo only experience one sense: sight. A strong odor might come through the windows and blast of noise comes through the body, but these have to be great attempts. Not subtle flowers. Back home, we drive everywhere. It is the only place where riding mass transit is a treat, something you take your grandmother from the country to after church.
The heat back home, however, is infinite. It is a heat you can settle into. Up here, the heat is one you have to struggle for.

Peace!