Winter noisily clears his throat.

“Good Christ,” he says, “I just can’t shake this thing.”
He theatrically spits,
paTOOey, like Clint Eastwood,
into the Great Lakes region.

(Another record-breaker in Buffalo).

The Wind hisses, snaking through the dead leaves that carpet the frozen forest floor.
“Repulsive,” she mutters, and the waving grasses nod in agreement.

Winter is not in the mood. He freezes the grasses where they stand.

The Wind shimmies up the nearest tree and settles herself on a boney limb. It sways gently, as if underwater, and a few lean grackles startle and take to the air.
“What’s eating you?”

The sky will be the same color all day,
so it’s difficult to tell the exact time.
Could be nine or noon or 4:30.
People hate days like this,
but Winter relishes them, revels in them. Nothing comforts him more than an oppressively slate gray sky.

“I scheduled my favorite sky today but I can’t enjoy it. I think I’m getting sick.” He summons up another storm and accidentally drops it, this time on New Orleans.

“You’re getting sloppy, old man,” she says flatly. Winter is blustering and aggressive and gets on The Wind’s nerves when they have to spend this much time together.

She arches her back and sighs in irritation, disturbing the surrounding fauna. From the canopy above erupts a cacophonous flurry, jarred from their roosting place and screaming into the air: cedar waxwings and white-crowned sparrows, dark-eyed juncos, mourning doves and a lone red shouldered hawk, which arcs above the rest eying them hungrily. It selects a small sparrow and abruptly knifes down toward it, effortlessly slicing the sky in two.

Winter and The Wind watch quietly, interestedly. It’s one thing neither of them has control over. Fate.

Evolution and animal behavior can be influenced to a degree; landscapes and eco systems crafted; civilizations built and destroyed as quickly and easily as drying up a river. What’s written in the stars, the plot and grand finale of every living being, that’s a different department entirely.

Winter leans in,
“My money’s on the big one.”
The Wind rolls her eyes,
“How on-brand. I would have bet on the little one anyway.”

The two birds, predator and prey, swoop and dive gracefully through the dark daytime sky, a carefully choreographed dance imprinted on each of their DNA since the dawn of their creation. The little sparrow is fast but the hawk is just too big. It will clearly catch her.

“I think it’s because I’m overworked,” Winter looks at The Wind, continuing. “The snow quotas were raised just about everywhere except my usual route, you know? The Poles are really starting to freak out and it’s like, I’m telling them, sometimes you’ve gotta give a little to get a lot. I don’t want to promise them a new Ice Age just yet but all signs point to yes. It’s time for another big boy freeze, Wind, I can feel it in my bones.”

The Wind is still watching the birds. “We can only do so much planning right now while everything is so unpredictable. My schedule has me fanning California wildfires this season and it’s a real drag. I didn’t agree to this project, but you can’t just say that, right? So I’m there, I’m doing it professionally, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a little outside my scope. Like, wildfires in the Palisades? I spoke to Fire and do you know it wasn’t even on her calendar? The extinction process is always so laborious and disorganized.”

The hawk is climbing altitude now, it won’t be long before it goes in for the ****. Exhausted, the sparrow flutters weakly, unable to give up.

Time briefly suspends, then a flash of feathers and talons and beak and it’s over. The little sparrow dies silently and maybe even gladly. She was so tired. Away, away, balanced upon the line of the horizon they both go, away to a nest or a cliffside to both fulfill their roles in the divine comedy.

“******* Nature.” The Wind has sat with Winter this way for aeons, since the birth of this place. She always bets on the small ones.

Winter smiles at her. “It’s been a long time since I had an Ice Age.” He clears his throat again and makes to rid himself of it, but The Wind cuts him off.

“You’re disgusting, I can’t sit here with you while you snow, it skeeves me out. I have a meeting with a weather system over the Baltic Sea that I can’t be late for anyway. Look, if you’re sick, you should rest. The next Ice Age can wait.”

She blows him a kiss and is gone, and the forest stills.

Winter is alone again. He begins the satisfying work of preparing for the evening’s offerings: black velvet darkness beneath a swath of gray expanse. An ice storm in the wee hours will see a glorious sunrise in a crystalline wood, the light dancing and refracting joyfully from blade to base to branch. He enjoys Wind’s company but doesn’t miss her. No one will lay eyes on tonight’s workings but the forest creatures and the celestials. This one is for them, and for the white-crowned sparrow. She deserves a holy funeral.

The hawk, back in its nest, gazes steadily at the slate gray sky. Night is coming. The hawk breathes in and out. In and out.

In.

And out.

In the mirror of his choices, he sees his own face,
No longer a pawn in this intricate race.
The roles he has taken, he wears like a cloak,
Not shackles that bind him, but armor bespoke.

He owns this journey, the paths that he treads,
Neither saint nor sinner, just the words he has said.
Good or bad for another, that’s theirs to define,
But the power he holds is solely his design.

He won’t let the titles dictate who he is,
Not a king nor a beggar, just a man with a vision.
These labels are fleeting, like whispers in air,
He breathes in the moment, letting go of the care.

What he has is temporary, a gift in disguise,
Each day a new canvas, painted with skies.
So he slows down the tempo, finds peace in the flow,
Embracing the present, wherever it goes.

No rush to abandon what life has bestowed,
He’ll walk with intention on this winding road.
He’ll savor each heartbeat, each laugh, and each sigh,
Living for now, letting time slip by.

With every decision, he carves out his way,
No chains on his spirit, just freedom to sway.
In the dance of existence, he’ll find his own song,
For he is who he chooses, and he’ll carry along.

We stood together, side by side,
Watching the apple trees far and wide.
A family tended them with care,
A simple life, without despair.

No crowns to wear, no battles to fight,
Just the quiet peace of fading light.
You and I, we shared the same dream,
To be nothing, to let go of the gleam.

No burden of names, no titles to hold,
Just the warmth of the earth, a story untold.
A wish we carried after all these years,
To live without weight, without our fears.

We looked at the trees and whispered aloud,
Maybe this was their wish, the first and proud—
Adam and Eve, in a world so wide,
Longing for peace, with nothing to hide.

To return to the soil, to live and to breathe,
Without the sorrow, without the need.
We saw it there, in the family’s hands,
A life of simplicity, not by command.

And as the apple trees swayed in the breeze,
We felt the truth, as soft as the leaves—
That we and they, through time and strife,
Only ever wished for a normal life.

I don’t know what it was, but it was beautiful, and warm. It was almost blinding. It was something I’ve never seen before, but it felt like a place that I had been many times. There was a sharp pain, but only for a moment. The pain left my body, and I assume so did I. In plain view, high above myself, I saw my small body and the blood pooling around my tiny skull. People rushing to help, touching my head to help the bleeding stop, but I felt nothing. They called for help, and I heard not a sound. I looked up, felt no fear, and I flew high above the ground. Faster than I’d ever seen anything move.

The higher I rose in the atmosphere, more parts of me began to fall away. My skin, clear. I could see my insides and my lungs as they breathed. The mechanism of this physical life. Then it was gone.  Everything that I knew I was had completely disappeared. I moved out of time, leaped into space. There I was, no longer anything. Surrounded by nothing. I became a God just riding my bike.

We live in such a minimal world, so much unknown an so little perceived. The colors I could see are like nothing anyone has ever seen. They are brighter, and they can talk to me. They told me this was where I belonged, and this was my home and I’m welcome any time, but that I’m earlier than expected. They knew me. They knew my entire life and all the ones before. The longer I stayed the more I understood. My soul, still in the age of a child, so they told me to go back. This is just a small step on a journey of excellence. I have too much life to live and learn. This experience, would also serve its purpose.

Time seemed to go on for years and with every passing moment my own colorful form would expand. The longer I lingered the harder it became to collect all the parts of whatever it is I had become. The images before me spun and swirled. Their movements were seamless and graceful. I experienced all these sensations no human had ever described. Then one, finally felt familiar. I felt the sensation of falling. Whatever I was, color reaching across space, was ****** back into itself and it blurred my vision.

I began floating downward, slowly. As I descended I gained lightning speed, and took back my recognizable form. My physical body, my fingers and toes had returned, and I felt the wind on my skin. And there I was, still lying on the ground. A blanket over my shoulders, my lips still pink. I hovered there for a long while recalling all that I had just experienced. I knew as soon as I returned my memory would betray me. My selfish attempt to recall the colors I had grown to love. My physical body was merely seven years old, but that’s old enough for the ties to be severed, to have lost that connection to the spirals. The innocence that gets buried by death, and I wanted to remember.

So I gave in. I opened my eyes. The clouds were bright and my mother’s eyes ignited. Her screams of joy were shattering, and her voice a familiar sound from my journey. I sat up, touched the blood that ran down my face, and flew again, this time into my mother’s arms. She held me and cried, thanking God for letting me live. Unknowingly thanking me for my own decision. I sobbed, grateful for this home.

I was back, I was alive, and I remembered.

He sat beside me, quiet and still,
His hands on the keys, with a hidden skill.
No one knew the song he could play,
But in that moment, he led the way.

His fingers moved with gentle grace,
A melody soft, filling the space.
He said, “I find it hard to show,
The feelings inside I barely know.”

So he taught me how the music flows,
How in each note, a story grows.
Through keys and chords, his heart was revealed,
A language of sound, long concealed.

He wasn’t one to share his mind,
But through the piano, we intertwined.
Each lesson more than just a song,
A way to express what felt so wrong.

No words were needed, no voice to speak,
His emotions poured in every streak.
I learned not just the notes he played,
But the silent thoughts he’d never say.

And as the melody lingered on,
I felt the depth of what had been drawn.
In teaching me, he found his release,
Through music, his heart had found its peace.

Now when I play, I hear his soul,
The quiet man who made me whole.
In those lessons, I came to see,
That music was how he shared with me.

On a quiet shore where the waves softly kissed,
She wandered alone, lost in the mist.
The sun dipped low, painting skies of gold,
When a figure emerged, his story untold.

He knelt by the tide, where the ocean meets land,
Writing something secret in the warm, golden sand.
Curiosity stirred as she drew near,
A message inscribed that brought forth a tear.

“I was dead,” it read, “but now I am found,
In the whispers of waves, where hope can abound.”
Her heart skipped a beat at the words he had penned,
A moment so fleeting, yet time seemed to bend.

He looked up and smiled, a light in his eyes,
A warmth in his gaze that felt like the skies.
In his hand, a bottle, filled with sea’s treasure,
A gift from the depths, a token of pleasure.

“Take this,” he said, “for you’re never alone,
In the depths of the ocean, we’ve all found a home.”
With sea glass and shells, the bottle held dreams,
A piece of the ocean, or so it seems.

She stood there in wonder, with the setting sun,
As waves danced around them, their spirits as one.
For in that brief moment, a connection so real,
She found something precious, something to feel.

As the tide washed away what was written that day,
The message lingered on, in her heart it would stay.
For the man by the shore, with his words in the sand,
Gave her hope in the ocean, and the strength to withstand.

The universe was on my side when I bought that winning ticket. I stumbled upon more money than I knew what to do with. The first objective on my list was to get out of that awful apartment. The paper thin walls made it hard to exist. The musty smell of leaky faucets. Now I could go anywhere. Do, or be anything. The run down city I used to call home, became old news so I left it behind.

I flew across the sea, traveling along northern European lands until I found a little forest on the boarder of coastline. I made an appointment to procure this piece of land, a blank slate that I could manipulate into whatever I desired. A quiet place I could finally create the peace I always craved.

The day was damp, foggy, and gray. I drove up the gravel road I had already explored. A powerful sensation of dread crept into my spine, and burned my chest, it grew the closer I got to the little shack in the grove. I refused to acknowledge any thoughts of negativity, this was everything I had ever wanted, and needed. All my life I longed for a secluded little space to be inspired from, to evolve into my personal sanctuary.

I imagined a pool house and detached sauna. Three stories of cement with skylights in every room on the top floor. I saw an acre of landscape with waterfalls and ponds. Oh the work I have ahead of me to transform this lost land. Time had done its damage but it will soon be mine to improve. There are trees to be cut, bushes to be trimmed, and grass to be uprooted for the driveway.

The atmosphere grew colder as I pulled up to the broken windows and chipped shiplap. The only structure within the vast acreage I would acquire. The foliage was overgrown leading to the tree line. Behind the tall grass, more acres of woods stood waiting to be explored for what could be the first time in a century. The sound of the creek, the large meadow opposite of the trees, it all seemed too perfect to imagine. Yet, those feelings of dread and displacement grew larger than the tip of the oaks that stood before me.

The little house was decrepit. Whoever built it left without finishing. The roof was missing shingles, and the walls were rotten with mold. The windows had broken from swelling in the misty morning fog. Food left on tables I could smell from a distance. The realtor said the last owners only stayed a few weeks before leaving without a trace. Surely everything here had to go, including the branches than had fallen in front of the door. Demolition was now at the top of my list. I would hire a team to quickly tear down everything in sight.

I had seen all I needed to see. The decision was easily made. I needed this place to be mine, but that feeling in my spine, in the chest, it crawled into my throat. I stepped to the edge of the tree line, and the wind blew so hard it ****** me into the branches. The sound of the forest grew louder than my own thoughts. There were different languages I had never heard before, for the wind, the leaves, and the insects that now surrounded me. These voices boomed and consumed my entire mind until they synchronized. They tried every language until finding the one I understood.

It was clear I was unwelcome here. This untouched place, full of ghosts and beech trees. The voices spoke and told me I should leave. Humans weren’t welcome in this part of their realm. The tornado of wind finally slowed down and I was able to see. Skulls and other bones, piled around me. Some more decayed than others, but all human. No animal carcass in sight. They intertwined with the roots, were half eaten by fallen leaves. The collective voice spoke to me again, it said if I were to linger too long this would surely be my end. That the forest would **** me in and use my body to bloom. With every corpse it claimed, the forest grew.

I felt breathless as another gust of wind spat me out. I wanted this place! It was mine! I needed the natural world at my side, but it did not want me. It wanted no part of my vision of planned destruction. It would rather feed on the death of the most natural parts of me.

I left quickly, as to not further disturb this evil sanctuary. The message was clear and I followed the instructions. I left all that beauty behind, untouched, and wondered if the previous owners had become part of the woodland graveyard. Did they stay and try to commune into nature, to learn and grow and speak their language? Or did they flee, like me?

I still value my life, and I do not want it to end.

Why would I when I still have all that money to spend?

It's ok to sometimes fall out of balance.
Out of flow like a leaf that gets stuck somewhere between branches or stones.
A minute ago this leaf was flying graciously like a butterfly but it lost its balance and got stuck. Squeezed between some objects.
Now it has to stop worrying. To look around and to breath. "Where am I?" it says. "A minute ago I was flying carelessly like a beautiful butterfly 🦋 and now...?" it thinks.
"It's ok to lose your balance sometimes" it hears an unfamiliar voice. "It happens so that you can stop and look around for a moment. It happens so that you can appreciate what is here now. Breath, relax. Soon enough you will fly again."

🙏

Or maybe... the balance gets restored when I lose my fast pace for a minute?