It was an unusually refreshing November morning. A hint of winter hung in the air, grey and foreboding. Baked sickly autumn, golden leaves rolled under her feet. The wind gently caressed over her callous fingers and she relished the passing pleasure. She whistled a tune for the wind and smiled.
Something was coming, and she knew.
She knew how to be discrete; artificial, even. She had acquired such an ability a long time ago. Had not she learned to exhibit excitement, to silence joy, to conceal cheers during times like these?
But how the wind begged for another dance.
She noticed that the colors of leaves were changing. She looked up and saw them; honeyed caramels against an endless cerulean canopy, waltzing with the cotton blossoms. An unspoken joy swelled up from within; and songs of a thousand poets gladly echoed back in unison. The air was becoming increasingly mischievous and intoxicatingly delightful. She wasn't sure how to respond; she simply smiled back weakly.
Something had arrived.
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Started writing this back in November; completed it only just now. Why do I always do that? Maybe the title of this should be "Hindsight." :P
And I know; I know. Typical vocabulary; typical structure. Maybe I will start writing more elegantly one of these days.
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