I gently lean into the door bitting down on my tongue as it creaks open

The brisk air bitting back at my face, shooting up my sleeves

Restless to take my first step, yet wavering to enter the cold

I feel my body grow tense as the cold sinks in, trapped under the restriction of my fleece with no escape

I look up past the cloud of fog created by my own breath

I see the silver dance of the sky and I know it is time

I know little of what I am doing, perhaps it is my youth, perhaps it is my foolishness

Yet I shift out the door and into the piercing morn’

I make my way to the street out back

Looking nowhere but forward, I let my feet dart off the pavement

Not as a racer to a finish line

But as a pilgrim towards a new land