Stalking The Wind

Weaverbird nest

Don’t you just hate when a writer starts off by saying: Sorry I haven’t been writing lately.

I’ve been hiding in my cave- little writing room—working on my next great novel. I have completed the first draft and three rewrites. My muse held me hostage because I really like this story. This particular manuscript has taken almost a year, off and on, to complete. Perhaps I’ll write about it one day.

While in self-imposed exile I sometimes take long walks with my dog in search of the wind and to let my eyes relax viewing nature as a bystander.

I walk where I have almost no human contact. Plenty of cows, birds, lizards, snakes and the occasional squirrel cross my path. Always carrying a bamboo walking stick I insure the wildlife stays at a reasonable distant. My dog has a bad habit of chasing everything to me so I can get a closer look.

Dog listening to the wind

Dog listening to the wind

My favorite spot is only a short distance from the house but it is like walking into a forgotten wilderness. Tall bushes obscure my view and I hear things scurrying about. Male Weaverbirds build elaborate nest to attract just the right mate. Their homes hang from trees over a small pond and they build right next to one another. I often wonder what it is the female sees that brings her to one or the other.

A few yards past the squabbling birds is the place I seek. It draws the wind and I can feel the currents carry my worries away upon wings of strong gust. In front of me is a vast open area where rice is grown. Fields of every shade of green undulate like the incessant waves of the ocean. My eye relax, my ears enjoy and my mind empties of worry—if but for a moment. I hope that you’ve had the chance to stand in silence and hear the mood of the wind as it pours from the vastness of an open expanse.

Rice- very shade of green

Rice- every shade of green

The currents caress me and my vision is a cloud of green as I visit foreign worlds that are only a daydream away.

Others have seen my little spot of peace and I can tell they are unimpressed. But they don’t see as I do. It is my berth.

When my muse has decided it is time to return she fills my mind with the story I’ve been working and forces my feet to turn away. I tip my hat to the myriad of birdlife and even to the cows as I pass on my way home.

My short journey is complete.