I step into the color of night; darkness washes over me, engulfing my entire frame. I can feel it touching my skin, the shadows ever so gentle and frail. It is a familiar blanket, worn often but never fraying.
My bare feet dance across the cold, hard concrete of the patio: six – seven – eight steps, now I am on the cool, fresh cut grass. The scent of green permeates the air. This thick carpet of nature caresses my feet, separating my toes with a few blades. My toes wiggle, an involuntary reaction. The child inside me escapes, and I must frolic, letting the blades tickle as they will.
An unseen hand gently persuades distant figures to sway, moving them in time to a silent melody. I, too, begin to dance – twirling, twirling around and around in an unknown configuration. My hair floats behind me, sailing on the rushed air. I can feel myself getting lighter and lighter. The wind flows under my arms which are spread in a feeble attempt at wings. If I turn fast enough, my feet might be lifted from the earth and I can soar. I would soar high above the tree tops, chasing the voices carried by the breeze. Instead, the world begins to reel, and I find myself clinging to the ground.
I raise my hands, trying to stop the sickening spinning. The wind weaves through my fingers, like a swiftly moving spring. I can almost grab a handful, but not quite. The instant I have a fistful it disappears. The air is victorious, escaping capture.
If I am quiet enough, I can hear the wind whispering. It brings me words wrenched from distant conversations. I must concentrate, allowing my mind to decipher the phrases. Narrowing all my senses to one, I concentrate. With my mind and energies focused, the only things heard are delicate utterances. I am left to imagine what they say.
Sounds come from all directions, creating a peacefully lullaby. It is a pleasant sound, one I had been oblivious to. The string section is playing from the river and near the big tree. Crickets abound, all playing their universal tune. The first chair is most prominent, causing the others to muster all their strength to be heard.
The single woodwind is just that, the Wind. She finds objects to blow through. The tones produced seem to fit into Nature’s greatest composition.
When a hot summer day turns into a hot summer night, part of the percussion section has random and irregular pattern. The splashing of fish, feeding on bugs from the surface of the water, can be faintly heard.
The steady lapping of waves washing up on the shore maintains the rhythm. It is a consistent rise and fall, one beat more dramatic than the other. Without peering at the water’s edge, I can see the small grains of sand tumbling over each other in a battle to remain stationary. They grind each other down, making rough corners smooth. I can hear them crumbling, in the depths of my imagination.
How did I not notice them? The gusts shake the simple instruments in a randomly accepted fashion. The leaves are not metal, but they duplicate the indefinite pitch of any tambourine.
The countless diamonds sparkle against their back drop, sending small beams of light to the earth beneath. I remember, as a child, thinking they were angels watching over all the inhabitants of the world, winking at them. Tonight, I feel that same childhood excitement running through my veins. I can’t prevent myself from envisioning that these sweet angels are winking at me.
The moon casts a soft, shimmering light that the glassy river catches. Its perfect roundness burns a temporary visual scar in the flowing liquid called the Snake River. Due to this flawless reflection, it appears the sky neither ends nor begins. The earth has become Heaven, in this single tranquil night, the two spheres blending and binding into one.
I could stay here forever.
