It is summer, and gravity is losing its grip. Thresholds hold no power. Sprint out the door with your head held high, and feet flying so fast you can’t tell if they’re still yours. The spirits here are bouyant and reckless, orange creamsicles brought to life. Don’t trust them, but don’t worship the space around them. These spirits are equals with us in our freedom, in our taking flight and in feeling the living air rush past our faces full of secrets we cannot contain. There is only one rule in summer: be braver than the rest. Drink the oxygen around us and breathe water into our lungs. Keep hearts beating at the pace of a cicada’s song, and we will be tolerated. Summer is no forgiving. It’s just really good at covering up secrets with sand.