Air rushes like an invisible river across the valley rim today.
White clouds race across the wild blue sky, fugitives pursued by the wind.
Powerful gusts toss the treetops, making them shrug and wag their leafy heads like restless giants.
Birds shelter, their soaring wings folded close.
In the valley’s cup, the air is still as a woodland pond.
Butterflies drift among the flowers lining the walkway, their fragile wings untroubled by a calm that wouldn’t stir a dandelion seed.
They float like petals that bloom for a moment, then fall—rediscovering the miracle of flight.