Happy to be Alive

Yippee!
I'm glad to be alive. I'm glad you're alive too.
Look up. The stars are shining like lights around a swimming pool.
Every morning I wake up wild-haired and walk to a park and read.
The wind sounds exactly like Stravinsky at Central Park where people play football.
I first found art in nature with Whitman, and it seemed right to me.
I was happier when his thoughtfulness and sweetness carried over my heart like a compass into wilderness. 
Yeats once described the writing process as trying to string a balloon caught in a mighty wind into a narrow shed.
I have the same problem.
I'd like to stay in this field forever and think of nothing but these sounds, these smells, and the tickling grass.