The air is brisk

The air is as brisk as a fledgling lamb
a small and fresh lamb enraptured with joy and spring
prancing in meadows of buzzing daisies. The lamb was born recently and it has a soft muzzle as it bleats against you for food and comfort. It is unaware of the precariousness of its existence in the world and the fleeting nature (of its naivete).
You wish you could take the lamb home so you can save it from a certain fate. Perhaps it could curl at the foot of your bed, like the small and shaggy puppy that you never owned. It would bleat plaintively and helplessly in the morning for food and the cut grass you would throw at the dirty white would smell like air and summer days.
The lamb would become friends with your sister and the two would gambol in the dappled startling sunlight. You would lounge on the damp grass with your palms flat against the ground and smile into the glare and dream of autumn and the future