With sweet nostalgia hanging in the air, the winds pick up and spread it through the park like butter on toast. Orchestrating the poplars' subtle and routine symphony, the winds travel, leaving a slight coolness in their wake. A clue to their presence. The over-powering scent of familiarity lingers and invades the senses, prompting a catharsis. A feeling reaches deep into the soul and reacts. The product, being of a something...of two somethings, perhaps, unknown.
In response, the heart skips a beat, jostling the distracted mind awake and alert to the surroundings. Opening the eyes.
And you notice, quite suddenly, how alive the world around you really is. Like the curtain opening to a show. And an array of beautiful notions dart to and fro, as if attempting to escape your understanding and into the wind that journeys; even through the tiniest blades of the grass at your feet. If an idea could only wander from one spot to another, like the sound of children's laughter echoing between the old trees. If one pure thought could escape and find host in another, would that not be a beautiful thing? Or for the indomitable affection of two lovers sitting at a park bench to trickle over and illuminate the heart of the old man passing by. If only beauty and love be so easily given and not so easily taken.
The gentle fluttering of wings breaks concentration, as a nearby dove settles upon a low branch that is set to swinging. From its perch, the park must seem smaller as it watches the people move amongst the greenery, ignorant to its presence above. Save one. A face, upturned. A soul reaching out for an understanding of beauty's very nature and being met by the gaze of a single, white dove.
