The sky spreads out beneath my foot, rippling blue washing out to muddy brown along the edges. It's a revelation to me: my size 9's treading across the heavens, even if only for the briefest of moments. Tree tops emerge from the toes of my shoe, the green leaves an impromptu spray of color across my silver-topped sneaker. There is a world at my feet in an instant and then lost just as suddenly as I walk on through. Splash! Splash! The hem of my pants absorbs the caps of tiny waves. For a moment, I am the unintentional creator of a monsoonal event. And then it passes. The sea is calm. Left behind is the oak leaf my eyes sought initially, a wee boat afloat in the puddle spanning the corner of this street I daily pace.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
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