(written on the shores of Whiskeytown Lake)
Time is standing still. All around, tall, green trees straighten up, daring any living creature to break the reigning peace. Silence. Nothing happens. The trees remain upright and motionless; a quiet testament to their victory. A soft wind blows, putting the grand guardians to sleep. Time is standing still.
Yet, there is one thing the trees seem to consent. It happens to be the soothing rhythm of the water, flowing peacefully on the lake beneath them. There is not a rush in the world. No errands, no missions, no commotion. A gentle rhythm, and that is all. Time was not made for water. Time is standing still.
Suddenly, curiosity draws a bird to hover over the water. He flies in circles, as if waiting for something to happen. But not on this lake. The trees awaken and call for the wind to swoosh on their branches. Together, they produce the greatest of noises. It begins as a gentle whistle and suddenly it grows louder and then louder. The warm air flees and is replaced by the impersonal, cold wind. A majestic fear settles. The bird, no longer agog but now immensely afraid, flies as far away as he can. The wind stops. Warm air comes back to grace the sand. Peace is restored. Satisfaction reflects off the trees. Time is standing still.
The sun yawns in the distance, as he lays his head to sleep. One by one, the stars appear on the sky. One big reunion of constellations. The trees seem quite uneasy with all the changes going on. But it doesn’t matter. Soon enough, time will be standing still.
No comments:
Post a Comment