Golden stalks of grass quiver as purple clouds float across the pink streaked sky.
Tiny mushrooms bloom at my feet as my toes sink into the fresh planted sod.
As I sat on the rickety, wooden chair in the middle of the lawn, my wet hair teased dry by the warm wind of July, I got lost.
Rogue fire crackers cackled a few houses down as I set my head back and watched the leaves of the trees dance across a power-line trapped sky.
If I was not human I would want to be the wind for she is both dangerous and wonderful.
Her voice is powerful, most often bringing an ominous cry of change.
Something is coming.
She pulls in darkness, pushes forward light.
She brings fresh air and storm clouds heavy with rain to wash all clean.
She teases our hair and tugs at our clothes telling us to look and behold.
Look there - look here.
Look everywhere at what has been created for you.
She never boasts of herself. Her movements always place another in front - the coming thunder, the majestic trees, the forgotten sun, the missing moon.
Her story is forever attached to another's - the pages of a book that rustles, whispering of the secrets inside.
She is strong and gentle.
Elusive, yet tangible.
Beautiful and mischievous all wrapped into one.
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