There is a quiet feeling in the air, for now unbroken by the happy cries and playful yells of children. A breeze shifts through the long, over-grown branches of the bushes, tickles the dangling leaves that still cling precariously to the high tree branches.
It is the sky that captures my attention today. A brilliant blue, a quiet blue, it has robed itself in the most ethereal, whispy clouds one might hope to find. Angel wings, I call them. If angels were made of gas and water, and not fire and terror. The clouds form a rough sort of map in the window between the trees. I can see Europe, Great Britain, and Spain before the wind - miles and miles away - shifts the shapes,m oh so slowly, into something else.
The tree branches are beginning to shed their summer clothing, sticking skeletal fingers towards the angelic clouds. Of all God's creation, is there any other creature that decides to wear less in the winter, rather than more? And yet the practicality is still the same; the squirrels fill themselves up and sleep, wrapped in extra furry down. The trees drop their leaves and sleep, no longer needing to concentrate on producing food for themselves.
The clouds never sleep. And if they did, of what would they dream? Of a day when the wind would no longer bully them across the sky? Of a day when they would not leak their sorrows on the earth, or ravage the landscape with electric rapiers and greedy, twisting fingers? Or perhaps that they would be allowed full reign to these designs?
How peaceful they look. How dangerous they can be.
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