At the cafe we sit right by the huge open windows, and cool air rolls over us as the storm starts up. We breathe deeply and peacefully until I wonder aloud if lightning can come in through open windows. (Chances of that are small, very small, but it's not impossible...)
It's lovely when a subway car suddenly disgorges all if its passengers, and you're no longer standing with your nose in someone's hair line.
Turtles loll in the shallows nom-nom-nomming on leaves.
Tulips on a table laid out in rich blue paper.
Springtime in the synagogue, flowers twined around the room.
They sing "Baby Beluga" with looks of rapt innocent concentration. They're little people who can barely sit still, love to give hugs, and know the words to songs about donkeys, wheels on buses, saying good-bye and the deep blue sea.
The bug making its slow patient way across my ceiling is an explorer of sorts, mapping out an ocean of space. Even as I stand there waiting for it with an old textbook and a bottle of Windex, I can respect its intrepid spirit.