The Wind is Away

Sound claps its hairy hands in the effort to shoo away the cloudy daydreams of a late sleeper. Sunlight shifts in delicate angles and slices the room into layers. A whisper echoes across rooftops and floods over the shelves of crystal cliffs that line the valley below. I wonder if it is the sound of traffic, singing, or wind. When the wind goes away it always leaves behind a ghost of its music and dance.
Journal writing by John Fish January 6, 2001

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