Melody
Something is different. I don’t know what. It is so warm here; so
pleasantly warm. A bit crowded though. Tight. No room to move. At
least most of the others are sleeping. It’s the light. That’s what’s
changed. Light has entered the darkness and I can almost hear the
breath of life. How long have we been asleep?
Mama
sighs gently and we are warmed by more light. She softens her grip on
us, and others stir with pleasure; they can move now, a bit. A few more
waken and stretch. A soft breeze tickles my hair as I listen to the
cicadas’ summer song that crescendos into a warning of rain. Silly
bugs. There will be no rain today; only the kind of heat that sinks
deeply into one’s roots and stays there. As if they hear my thoughts,
the cicadas diminish. A frenzied June bug flies so close it fills the
air with the acerbic odor of its body, and I hear the mechanical clatter
of its wings. It is chased by a hungry, clever mockingbird - really
nothing more than a soft streak of gray gliding and pushing along an
invisible sine curve in quest of its prey.
Mama
sighs again, and I blink in the overwhelming brightness. The enticing
wind promises me adventure amidst the fragrant grass, nasturtiums, and
spiderwort. Where are the others? I alone cling to Mama, tired now, in
her beautiful roundness. She sighs again…and suddenly, I float above
her, released: I am flying!
Accompaniment
Purple twilight softens into gold; dew on the field evaporates almost
as quickly as it forms. A bulb shaped dandelion, pregnant with seeds,
begins to open as the sky turns to dawn.
A
warm breeze tickles the emerging tuft of white, silky fuzz as the
cicadas’ summer song crescendos into a false warning of rain. As if
daunted by the lazy laughter of Spanish moss in the oaks, their chorus
reluctantly diminishes. The insects’ song carries the last blush of
sunrise, otherwise forgotten in the heavy coastal heat. A frenzied June
bug flies close enough to the fuzzy orb that the mechanical clatter of
its wings is almost palpable. Enticed by the bug’s pungent scent, a
hungry, clever, mockingbird drops insouciantly from the height of the
great old oak. Nothing more than a soft streak of gray gliding and
pushing along an invisible sine curve, the mocker jubilantly chases its
morning meal.
A hot
breeze descends across the field as the sun rises to midday. It carries
the fragrance of dehydrated grass, nasturtiums, and spiderwort in its
long and unpredictable journey. One last seed clings to the round orb
of the spent dandelion. Suddenly, a playful gust detaches the seed, and
it floats above the dying globe, aloft at last.