The warm sunrays filtered down through the branches, the boughes, the
leaves that formed a circus tent canopy over the grassy clearing. The
early morning sunshine sang out with life. Rejoice! Seize the day!
The dew was burning off, and the damp green grass warmed, as a
carpet. Steam seemed to rise from everywhere at once, and shadowy
puddles, blotches of wetness laid out haphazardly slowly contorted
upon themselves, and disappeared into nothingness.
A small brook gurgled, quietly at first then louder. The crash of
water and rock sometimes murmured, sometimes shouted, then hushed
slowly only to rise up and repeat its chorus. The wind joined in the
symphony, whistling in the craggy crevises of the rocks and stumps,
rustling the leaves laid out on the ground and their brethern still
clinging to branches. The wind. The wind pushing on the branches till
each slowly moans a low and eerie compliant, resisting then returning
by their own strenghth to their original position.
And the staccato sound of the water, drippoing from the leaves, from
the petals, dripping silently into the earth, into grass, but
suddenly and randomly plucking out a tune by falling into a puddle.
Drips played like bowstrings, pulsing rhymically and randomly.
Suddenly the sunlight is darkened, as the air turns cold and the
daylight turns pale. The drip, the drop, becomes a patter, then a
surge. The chorus of creaks and moans is suddly counterpionted by the
crash of thunder. The whistle of the wind is louder and strongers,
raising an octive here and there. The rush of the water is harder and louder.
And as soon as the rain started is slows, then stops. And the
plucking of drops falling into puddles slows, then ceases. Slowly
again, the only sound is the river, and the whistle of the wind in
the crevises of the rocks, and the rustling of the leaves on the
ground, and the leaves in the branches. And it is a sound that never rests.