As the orange orb of the sun slid down behind English mountain, splashing the sky with rose, vermillion and mauve, the day’s heat began to wane. The air began to move; caressing their cheeks to further cool them as they sat in their rockers on the porch before it drifted off to play among the trees. The rustling leaves were like music.
The breeze wafted first from the south, then paused, and resumed again from the northeast, paused and swung back again as though it were playing a game. “I wonder what makes it change like that.” She sighed.
His mind filled with images of weather charts and thermal differential flows; warm air rising, pulling cooler air in from all around, mobile low pressure cells. He turned to her to deliver the dialogue that was forming. She sat there, eyes closed, head against the tall chair back, as she lolled gently to and fro. His nose wrinkled in thought, then he leaned back in his chair and resumed a slow rocking. “Oh, it’s just playful I reckon.”
The sky deepened through the shades of purple into black as the Chuck-will’s Widow added his melody to the concert of nature.
* * * * *
Beautiful, my friend. Sometimes silence or simple agreement are the best responses. I learned that from Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry. Thanks for the reminder.
Thank you, Charles. I like Andy too. We have many season of that show on DVD and watch it often. Much wisdom there.