ORS: Otherwise May be Referred to as A Summer Night, Contemplating the Powerlessness of Youth and the Natural Strength Therein

There's the rush; the feel of air so solid and free rushing through hair. Then the pacifier; the calm and tingling cold that stays the place of air. A total feeling of inebriating freedom as bare legs are whipped by the tall brown grass that has dried up to hibernate through summer. Come the first good rain and the field would be alive and moist with green leaves and brown grass life. Then the feeling of dry dirt and uneven trails under old sneakers. The ground still whispers at the heat of the day, lightly hinting at stale hot and petrifying light. It's the quiet that happens in a full house of sleeping people. The noise of a city turning over in its sleeping and sighing out in wait of the coming day.
Pale eyes look up and up to the stars, swirling and still and stiff as a statue of a famous dancer. There's no motion but the memory of a great dance in the sky. Messy hair drifts out and settles for tip tapping little brushes against shoulders and neck. Still on Earth. Still living. There's the air again but not from running. It isn't the fast rush and desperation of moving just so it feels like the oppression is suddenly leagues behind instead of three blocks to the left and one block down. It's the slow and gentle touch of displaced atmosphere running through hair to remind but not push.
Long, strong palms stretching into bony tapered fingers wrap around a shaft of grass and grip loosely, pulling steadily and carefully until the plant is uprooted and hanging like the death of thousands off the youthful hand. The plant is lifted to young frown lined face and examined under the brilliant and nebulous lunar light.
Indifferent fingers grip tighter for a moment as elbow extends and wrist flicks then palm unfurls and the plant is flung off and out of sight.
Round, childish legs pick dodge carefully through the grass back to the small black and uneven bike path. An old soul sits on the asphalt and leans back on strong arms with elbows flexed back.
Pale eyes don't see the stars nor the moon; they settle on black cuts on air and brown pikes in earth and follow the lines of power out of sight but never out of mind.