We walk on sidewalks.

Tapping down that smooth pavement, an organized jigsaw of man-made perfection, we human beings stroll. Passing automatons of concrete and plastic, we arrange them into straight and even planes, the edges smoothed until they rasp softly across our skin. We pull flesh from the Earth and turn it into our sky, all glass-edged steel and brilliant white tiles. The paths are our borders, lining the corners of our world and keeping the outside out, where it belongs.

But what would happen if one day, you stepped off the path?

Gone would be the astringent chemicals of cleaner and spray, replaced by the soft green smell of flowers and breath. The sky would no longer be a hard flat roof, but a brilliant scarf of azure, sliding into vermillion as the day wore on. Animals would pass you by, recognizing just another creature in their midst. The world would become untidy and chaotic, following no schedules or calendars that you could discern. Even if you strove with all your might, the largest of your efforts would be a mere dandelion plume against the fields of fauna.

We fear the insignificance.

The sidewalks are reassuring places, where life is exactly as it should be. Like rope bridges slung across howling canyons, they lift us above the "natural" world and allow us to observe without ever setting foot in that harsh landscape. And yet they are just as fragile. One tremor of doubt, one mudslide of denial, and we are up to our waists in lush, verdant life. The sterilized walkways lie in illusion and pretence, and we are the only ones who fail to realize it. The animals know this well, and they often traverse our hallowed ways, leaving their grassy footprints behind.

Scrub as we may, those prints burn deep.

With the strength and patience of coal beds, those memories find their twins hidden in our grey-white folds. They root out the tiny grains of dirt that even bleach has failed to find, and plant flowers in them. Blooming softly at first, this poor soil can only produce clover and the occasional limp-stemmed daisy. But as time goes on, the acidity of truth wears away our calcified flesh, grinds it into sediment and layers it with loam. Like fireworks, we sprout foxgloves and dragon-snaps and huge strings of orchids. They tumble from our mouths and eyes, loop about our stiff curls, and dribble down our arched necks.

We step off the sidewalk.

Crossing diagonally through the fields, below the stretched boughs of old sequoias, we human beings stroll. Brushing patches of brambles and hay, we scrape our fingers on thorns and bark, the blood salting the ground until we are surrounded by blooms. We kneel in the long grass and let it form our floor, all emerald cushions and tangy-scented soil. The horizon is endless, slipping over the lip of Earth and running down her curves. There are no limits here, and as the crunch of branches and the whisper of snakes fill our ears, we leap.

The wind can't tell you secrets from inside a glass sky.