There's a wandering chill in the air, and I am loving it. With the chill arrives the fog-laden partition between land and immediate sky, obscuring the ugly from the tolerable, and valorous from the mundane. The fog quickly lulls and rolls slowly in, in heaves and waves and fits and starts, noticeably obscuring the verdant hills that are usually quite visible on a clear, sun-worshiping day. As the earthy ground scent accumulates (both of damp road and tree), fills the senses, I am at home as the wind takes her path.
Hallowed wind--the apple of the naysayer's eye--slants cock-eyed, indifferent to what it abruptly pushes away. It's a primordial urge, this act of pushing away; says the naysayer with a solemn glint of eye and a protruding scowl of face. Here, there, in all directions blow the leaves on the robust bamboo tree; the heightened cherry tree. The tiny, immaculate feathers on the reluctant sparrow, who has just perched on the telephone wire to get a one's up from the cold, hard ground below.
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. She clumsily scrawls, pencil to paper, mumbles aloud. Finding her voice; carried onward, forward, by the roaming wind.