Today the temperature outside is the same as my body, or only slightly less, and it causes me to feel seemless, like I have no edges and am one with the air. Even the ever-so-slight breeze that tickles the Aspen leaves into a lazy dance doesn't register on my skin as external. It feels, instead, as though my own body were moving while I am standing still.

These are the magical days of summer dreaming, when time connects us, if we pause, to the conversations of rocks and dirt, to the soundless writing of the sky.