As dawn breaks, bathing the world in golden hues, I start my journey for the day. I am Winda the Wind, a gentle yet whimsical spirit carried by the softest breath of nature. I dance atop grassy hills, whisper sweet nothings to daisies swaying in cadence, and cradle tiny dew droplets on a waiting leaf. With each breath, I compose a new melody—will you listen?
On this particular morning, as I glide over the undulating landscape, a peculiar shiver runs through my essence. There’s a song lingering at the edge of my being, one I long to share with my surroundings. It flickers and twirls just out of reach, and with fervor, I take a deeper breath, hoping to capture this melody that both beckons and teases.
With the sun a little higher, my joy knows no bounds. I spiral and twirl, lifting laughter-filled bubbles from a stream, sending them floating. The tunes they produce join the chorus of my morning song—a song that yearns to reach deeper into the earth, for it is in the soil that harmony truly lies. I let my breath roam free, eager to touch every flower, tree, and critter that grace my path.
“Why do you sigh, dear Winda?” chirps a shy daisy, each petal quivering under my caress.
“Can’t you hear my song?” I cry. “I long for the world to listen, to join in harmony.”
Alas, despite my words, the daisy drops her head. The plump little earthworm peeking from its tunnel to my tune merely frowns, unconvinced. Do my notes not flow through the air like ribbons reaching for the distant horizon?
“Be not woeful, my little friend,” croaks an old bluebird, shaking dew from his feathers. “To find a true listener, one must travel far and wide.”
Eager to prove my worth, I cast my voice toward the mountains. Higher and higher I soar, twisting and turning, my voice ricocheting off the stony surface, echoing back even stronger. I pause, only for a moment, as I listen intently. Still, not a single creature responds to my pleas. Perhaps the valley below is too narrow? Perhaps the expanse of sky above is too wide?
After much time roaming the mountain peaks and valleys, I feel sorry for myself. Have I nothing worthy to give? Will I never be acknowledged for the beauty I am? How foolishly I thought nature could speak to each melody I undertake. I sweep down into a quaint little valley, resting on the gentle hillock just outside a bustling village. As the sun dips behind the horizon, my tears fall freely to the earth dampening the awaiting flowers nestled by the wind.
Despite myself, the most peculiar thing occurs—the flowers, albeit bedraggled, respond to my caress with song. Poppies clap their heavy heads together, and violets sway gracefully. Even the towering oak, strong but wise enough to know never to move, rustles its leaves in camaraderie. As stars twinkle high above, my song envelopes the valley like a comforting embrace.
“Is today a day to weep?” a croaking voice queries behind me.
“Alas, no creature here ever listens,” I reply. I spin and whirl slowly, softly tugging at the ears of the flowers. “Only one or two have joined what they humor me to call a song, but I wish millions to join.”
“Is that all?” croaks the toad, his voice amused. “Then wait, little wind. I shall give you millions.”
Such joy bubbles within me! Oh, how he and his millions must swell with pride to think they could act as mere instruments of my great melody. But for this night, ere they rise, I recall the hero winding and twining, dipping and soaring in a distant land.
Long, long did the musician search for the breath of the air. Days passed, and still he found it not. One starry night in the fairy season of spring, he lay weary near a silver stream and fell asleep. Then as he slept, a soft sigh was heard, a tender, merry sound that floated far and near—the rare, sought-after air-breath. Agile it was with an almost human grace, with an eager caressing whisper. All summer long the sweet minstrels floated older and wept, ever more and more, into the waiting autumn leaves.
Now the toad croaks jollily, and far and near the beckoning sound spreads into the forest, down into the valley, to the lake which receives every melody overflowing from the fresh old air-tender head of mine.
The air-breath sails through flooded gardens, sprawling campgrounds teeming with life, the lush wheat-fields yielding wealth, wise beeches eldering towards the church, the verdant meadows, near and far, ringing and pleading—but no ear but mine listens.
All night long the air rolls on, wherein in the company of the forest trees glad notes join hand in hand and dip towards the meadows, joyful greetings pouring forth. The crickets join us then, and a moonbeam dances on the rippling lake. The spiritual forest waits merry and quiet. Embark with me upon a boat sailing down the moonlit stream which flows through the great cherry gardens and ever onward to the city, where laughter and merriment abound.
All the rich souls that dwell in towns are unconcerned at our melodies; the crickets may as well be silent.
And still, artless myriads of glad, brave voices pour forth from the mountain and bend toward the shore, which calls to us over there, just as night fades and twilight—twilight due to my thoughts—calls to happy bosoms seeking communion. Another night has come for the bright-eyed crier of the wind and my black, round, brave kindred—all are joining in the merry strength of songs.
Remembrance can go no further back than yesternight. It might be only yesterday that we began, paths parting as flowers pressed side by side in wreaths. Far and near I sing, whirling fast, gaseous vapours rise crisp and embrace me from head to foot.
“Rain!” It resounds through all nature, and a million voices sing:
“Rain!” echoes the tarred soul in the muddy street, there where on both sides the trees hold their heads edge to edge, as if each would whisper into the ear of its neighbour that he listens to the air of my tremendous voice whirling and rolling.
“Rain! Rain! Soon, soon!”
Two beings are here who gaze fixedly at the sky. What do you consider so monstrous in my counsel? Is it the thought of sleeping? No; you would never have awaked again, never have heard my rustle never-ending, resting in sotto voce all till spring creeps once more over vale and hill.
Petals lie soft on soft sound-paved paths. It is spring. All forget, nothing but dewdrops tell of the bliss of the air.
Do you not still remember me? On those days you left the noise which tore at your spirit in such a horrible way… Sweet poetry graduated and was forced to go. The heavy music waned sweet and low. The opera house yawned stretchingly.
“Rain! Rain!”
And when you wandered home long after night, your children crept into your heart with still sharper delight.
Every pond hails your return much earlier this year. All nature is a litany praising the glad and brimming wealth—the free voices acknowledged, the grey underlingsiche in the falling drops, towards the waiting earth!
“Rain! Rain! Soon, soon!”
The grey underlings would go mad were I not here. But they have doubts of me. What if I changed my mind and burst on flowers ungraciously, or suddenly whirl away like Atlas rocked for hours or even years!
In this way you represent to me the accumulation of dark thoughts like great stones tumbling.
“Rain! Rain!”
What was that? A single tired soul here in the moist valley above and below half asleep—one who expects more from the bounty of spring even than that lighthearted soup.
And now listen to me. What is a song? Is it equal to a train of ideas? Which is the worst?
Well, summer is a human soul at heart…
“Rain! Rain! Nice warmed air. Close all shutters we can, and remember kitchens switching craters must get food somewhere.”
And I listen silent. As I did once with eyes turned attached to a chest simply full of breath. Do you think I am here near awfully calm, and consider me not ashamed for wanting to go to sleep? Never, never…
On one hand the mottled flimsy curtains unnoticed, hanging tall, which seem longing for the umbrellas outside.
But more in the manner of an unseen friend I listen to the drowsy and dim room with its speckled faded black-green glimmer. From the gilded harps a plaintive yet soft melody, like my moon, little daisy, is ever sounding here in the distance.
What were we speaking about? Ah yes; the human soul filled brimming full! And when one thinks all spongy and princely liqueurs are poured, fresh ingredients are always surprising the eater and listener not a little…
What would woeful grey thoughts bring one ever wisest, were it not for the countless pure rains?
Is not air termed the songs of our universe?
And in the water, there was the court musician, who could face everything, both sun and moon, and the everbrave ceaselifeloud eternally-turning earth after leaving our vessels when full…
In your limited human, the human world is but a little muted, clinking glass-tumbler as you increase all tones, innumerous as the stars, to vibrations on vibrations rendered clearer than when they fled sounds of your earthly instruments…
Deck all your green with verdure, Wit, whose voice is ever sounding black-green through the great companions.
Plunge into blooming rain…
And we shall hear no more sadder words.