Thursday, March 13, 2014

A Little Experiment

A whisper. A tremble. That fluid motion, that nothingness that wraps around. A stirring. A gust. That gentle lift, that skimming and shaping. The branches shift and lean, the grasses shimmer. A murmur, a movement. The leaves shiver and fold, shiver and fold. A silence, a tension. A building up, a turning in and tightening of things. The strong boughs creak, the earth quivers and breaths are held and everything is suspended – a pause. Then it comes, a rush, pushing, shoving, curling out and pouring over, whistling and slicing and curving around the edges, ripping through that emptiness and the hollow trees and pulling and clawing, dragging pieces and parts. A swirling, a screaming, a spectacular chaos, those mad fingers gripping and tearing and all the fragments twisting and spinning and the branches leaning and cracking and the dirt uplifted and everything losing its breath. A final thrust of air, that triumphant blast while the leaves still linger, the trees still sway, the world seems to shift and then – then just as soon a falling, a lessening, a quieting of it all. That hollow moan of things returning, drifting, settling. A hush, a stillness. The soft slow glow of life, the spreading calm and swelling silence. Everything sighs, everything waits. Everything has breath again.