Subtle winds flow, threading through his extended hands.
It’s almost as if there is a ghost of silk, being pulled in and around each finger.
Strands of hair tussle, tangling each lock down to the root, like the long tendrils of grass that dance and sway down in the valley below.
Life in entirety moves to the smooth rhythm of the winds.

Sloping from a plane, the hill crawls upwards.
Going up their is mostly small red rock, getting bulky and stopping at a vertical cliff.
It looks as if it were shot in explosion of rock and jagged edges.
There is a trail leading around the back to get to the top.
He meanders up, indulging in his surroundings.
He reaches the top.
The boy stands aloof upon the cliff edge.  
A bare Black Oak tree set beside him.
Creaking, groaning, and singing along with the hymns of the earth’s wind around.

Pebbles bounce and clack at each movement.
Even a twitch from the youth sends tiny boulders tumbling down, causing others to fall with it.
Facing the north, he looks up.
Stars splatter the sky like drips of paint.
Illuminating drops sent out in no particular direction or pattern.
He makes out constellations he was taught by his father.
Eager to create configurations of his own from imagination.
Looking around he finds the moon, moments away from being engulfed by mauve clouds.
A silhouette captured by the moonlight.  
The boy looks down and sits at the edge of the canyon cliff.
He dangles his feet over the ridge, kicking them back and forth.
Hitting one heel on the back of the rock wall and kicking the other out.
Suddenly he stops.
His eyes close.
He takes a deep inhale.
He sets his hands down at his sides, one hand gripping the sand and the other a small patch of grass.
Then gently, he loosens his grip, leaving his self to be carried by the embrace of the breeze.

The air pulsates.
Drafts pushing the boy hard with its invisible hands.
The child putting complete trust on the earth he sat above.
One gust pushes him forward.
Another carrying him back.
Other winds a variation of each direction.
Now balancing on the weight of a fractured ridge and a rooted tree, he exhales.
Gently leaning forward to look down at the rock descend below.
He looks up, sets his hands back to his hips, and the crest gives way.
Bringing the boy along...

The wind was still heavy.
The gravel was still loose.
And the tree still stood.
The cliff will continue to be a silhouetted in the backdrop of the moon.
Only now, it is his breath that is being exhaled upon the earth’s soils.
He will coordinate with the fields of bronze grass, and the trees will sing to the tunes of his melodies.