March 04, 2011

A moment of a woodland life.

I sat at the riverside, the wind floating strands of my hair in the honey evening light, and breathed in. My legs were crossed, elbows resting lightly on my knees, and I raised my head to meet the breeze and watch the juvenile clouds race each other across the gap in the treetops. This was home. The sound of the river leaping over stones was the voice of the land, the shushing of the trees its gentle accompaniment. I breathed in, and felt alive. A sudden gust of wind, tumbling itself to whip roughly at my shirt, brought my attention forward to the land across the river: a regimented, dark and curious place, scented with the sweet tang of pine. I laughed as the wind turned around on itself and pushed me towards it, urging me through the river so the water smoothed my calves until it washed me up on the further shore. I felt the muscles bunch in my legs, that glorious tension sing through my body and thrill my heart. The burn of future movement. I ran.

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