The world is sticky.

There is a balcony, high up, against a mountain of bricks. I am still little. The man brings out bags of earth and fills in the boxes. He plants little flowers.

I have never seen flowers grow up. The petals grow yellow and pink and their tiny stems thicken. Here in this forest I snack on all the rolly, juicy, awakening things that can’t hide from me. This is my forest. The wet clumps of earth are soft against my feet, my face, my belly. I climb up and up. The wind rattles my long climbs, throws me about as I grip the world. I run anyways, to the edge where I stare out and see blue.

I learn to jump off the dewy petals in the mornings, when the breeze is softest, the flowers almost still. I anticipate the wind as it rustles through my hair. I coil my little legs, each knee perfectly bent, only then do I launch forward. Slowly, I learn how to build little traps. I make many mistakes.

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