So much about nothing to do

 So much about nothing to do

Those mornings when you realise there is no plan for the day; no thing. Yet knowing it will unwind like a clock’s chime. A pal to call upon; a decision of direction to be made. An adventure to be had that has not thought itself through yet. It’s early. A deep breath turns to the window lightening slowly; everything is slowly today. The mind curtains the breeze, the light as still as a deep breath turning a stretch into a swing of legs. The length of a smile about nothing, the thought of nothing to do. Out of the window a gaze is held in perpetuity, in deliberate incomprehension turning. Slowly. Breakfast spoons time in the milk of childhood. A determined plan to do nothing with determination. To reduce adventure to the unraveling of a day’s indecision. The precision of a plan not yet formed on the empty stage stacked with the scenery of possibilities. The sun rises higher. The door is open. The breeze whispers ‘come on’. The pace to a pal’s door knocks on ahead of an unsaid agreement that the way is decided by mutual footfall. Down and around. Gathering the weapons to beat the fun out mediocrity; to banish the care for rules to the outer limits of condescension. Look out! The cry  "the boys are afoot" widens eyes.