Beginnings
An odd stillness hung in the air. A kind of quiet anticipation through the twisted branches. Ice still clung to the gnarled ends of the tree limbs.
Then a wind rose from across the lake.
(The wind was not the beginning. It never is.)
The wind stirred the air, and drifted among the trees. The icy raiments of winter still resting in the forest. The still, soft silence barely disturbed by the whispering wind.
The white bud of a flower was ripped from a branch and danced on the wind briefly before floating to the ground. The petal sat among the ice before dancing on the wind one last time, before being caught and torn by the dark end of a twisted tree branch.
As the pieces fell to the ground again, the wind rose.
While the wind was not the beginning, it was a beginning.
Then a wind rose from across the lake.
(The wind was not the beginning. It never is.)
The wind stirred the air, and drifted among the trees. The icy raiments of winter still resting in the forest. The still, soft silence barely disturbed by the whispering wind.
The white bud of a flower was ripped from a branch and danced on the wind briefly before floating to the ground. The petal sat among the ice before dancing on the wind one last time, before being caught and torn by the dark end of a twisted tree branch.
As the pieces fell to the ground again, the wind rose.
While the wind was not the beginning, it was a beginning.