Running

We stumble from the car carrying picnics and smartphones, shades and raincoats. We amble through fields with comparably clad explorers following colour coded wooden poles. Here we are free, enlightened by living things whose roots spread unhindered in their rows. I run my hand along moss, tickle fern beds, chase trickling streams. Here everything moves at its own pace. Time, duty, stress, all dissipate into distant fiction. How can we possibly go back? How can we ever feel this alive?

But we always return to the car – the park closes at five.

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