Free Write 1/17/11

The wind blows like a gentle song. Melodious, heart breaking, raw. The world moves to it, dances along to its rhythm. The lilies of the valley clothe the earth in their splendor, while moving to the gentle beat it creates. The wheat grains dance in unison, side to side adding a soft brush sound. The hills roll on forever and ever, the stage for the musical act. On the crest of a hill are roads, houses, people. Clouds form above and send pattering droplets from heaven on the dusty roads. And the people walk along. Do they see? Do they know? The music surrounds them. It makes the women’s dresses sway. It takes away the men’s hats and sends them soaring into a puddle of the water from the sky. A creek sits alongside the village, gurgling and lapping the sides of the earth as the rain fills it past its brim. Lightening breaks the sky, thunder sings its long baritone note. The rain applauds. Everyone is inside now, watching from windows, taking no part in the experience. Do they know the rain is a miracle? The storm is a concert, given by God. Don’t they know they are supposed to dance?