Get out and go—that’s all air wants to do. If it had a mom, she’d probably say, “You better sit your butt down somewhere.” But it has no mom to tell it what to do. So it plays free. Flies outside, catches all the sounds, mixes them up like rainbow flecks in a twirling baton, and tosses them into our room: a pink box with barking birds, crying leaves, rustling music from cars one, two, three blocks away, chirping dogs, babies booming and booming and booming with bass, alive, until the air wants to run free again, and rushes out—whoosh!—trying to take everything with it.
