It is past noon. A cool breeze sends shivers down the green water’s surface, different ripples criss-crossing in infinite directions. On one side of the lake the sun reflects itself, dancing like a fire at night. The birds sing, hidden away in the trees that have yet to shrivel and shy away from winter’s touch. Only a single one of these winged creatures makes its way across the sky, flying alongside the wind on this cloudless day. I’ve come to realize that this this lake is completely man-made: we’d dug the lake, filled it with water, and planted trees around them, thus attracting the wildlife that makes the music here. The only exception is the wind -- the trees still sing with each gust, and the water still rocks itself in unrest. The wind is the spirit of this lake, the one that brings here action. When the leaves scratch one another and the water splashes against itself, propelling the mallards to the vastness of this place… I see that the wind brings new oxygen to the lake and keeps the cycle of life here fresh and eternal. In a nearly controlled environment, wind is capriciousness, the reason for the differences we see each and every day. Without it, stillness will show its man’s vulnerability without nature: the same, the same, the same.
..connie..
