Momentum: the power residing in a moving object.

But I don’t mean this as a definition, but a state of being. Momentum is what I crave when still for too long, poised on a narrow hill. I’m waiting for the moment that I can hover one foot just over the step forward, and I savor it. That moment in decision. Knowing that the next step is not any other step I might take. There’s a blur when I close my eyes, an image of rushing steps and quick breath, like a child running through the trees before growing too big, too bulky to duck branches or sense the looseness of rocks that look firmly planted. 

It’s momentum I feel when I travel. Constant movement. Road trips. Flights. Train rides. Curving through mountain passes, rail groans filling blooms of trees, industry on land calling back to - at least, the thought I entertain - whale songs resonating through oceans. They are propelled forward by their own mass, because they must.