The scamper

It was one of those days when the urge to create crackled like electricity in the air. Every nerve in his body that wasn’t snap-crackle-popping with age was shouting silently, “I HAVE TO MAKE SOMETHING!”

He searched his mind for an untold story. He reached toward the top shelf to drag down an inspirational metaphor. He toured his heart for a lost puppy dog fable.

The sun cast a brilliant light and the world shone green as can be — green, the color of life and peace and, well, joy if you must know.

The eager dog rested her chin on his left arm impatiently, seemingly saying, “How can you sit here like an enormous lump when there is so much adventure in the air? This is a day for run and play and jump and bound and exhaust the thesaurus! Come, let’s let the sun bathe us while we scamper — it’s such a scamperous morning!”

Indeed, the sun shone and the wind rose and the dog scampered, and it was all one melodious symphony of light and sound and feeling all day long and into the night, for it was summer and the sun refused to sink in the west until every last scamper had been scampered, and the dog curled into a chair, happy to have had nothing to do that day except to be a dog with a full heart and a place to run and play.

He sank into his own chair and read the words he had been scribbling. They were enough for him to be content, and so he sipped his coffee and started preparing to prepare the words and tell the world, “I made this.”

But then he realized with a tingle that the tingle was still there, and he wasn’t finished making things today. A grin snuck over his face and he paused his preparations, because he knew the making wasn’t done, and instead of saying, “I made this,” he raised a finger and said, “Hold that thought.” 

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