Wind Rising

Fields, as far as the eye could see, meeting with the sky at the horizon, both briefly touching, a golden warm light bathing their embrace, the light green joyfully meeting the bright blue. Specks of white, fluffy and lazy mowed the grass, speckling the fields. All was silent but the whirring wind, dancing around, grass swaying in the breeze, scents blowing from one place to another. Here was the scent of unearthed mud, here the soft smell of fresh grass, here wisps of wool floating around, overwhelmingly, the smell of joy, and peace. Tranquility flirted with the tongue.

The sheep grazed, one of the smaller ones lifted its head, and stared blankly at the horizon, where the colors of the light mingled. It seemed bewildered, and looked back to its food. Moving to another spot as it did, looking for fresher grass. All the while, munching loudly.

The wind danced around, happy in the existence of life, in the company of life, floating on the wind were spores that it would use to spread life, pollen like mist in the air, stay too long, and some would stick onto your skin.

Another few sheep lifted their heads, stared the same way into the horizon. Their minds too were consumed by the thought of food, and how it was never enough, they had to graze all day to be full, mouths chewing, stomachs rumbling.

The wind picked up, from a joyful whistle, to a loud roar, to a shrill, insistent screech, disarming, painful. The sheep all raised their heads and stared at the horizon. The colors were starting to shift, to merge, as if a mirage were being pulled from the eyes. They felt the ground trembling.

They bleated, and began to trot as fast as they could, all converging, bumping into one another, wool rubbing, floating, flying off them, clothing the grass, littering the roads, strands of soft pure white snow. The wind screamed, wool flying, racing, raging.

The sheep bleated, insistently, urgently, their bleats turning into one large collective cry. As they ran far away, not knowing, but running as one collective unit, one tribe, one conscience.

The colors on the horizon were blurry, not across, but through one spot. The blur began to get larger and larger. Sure enough, a large hurricane appeared, larger than any skyscraper, water whipping around, objects swirling on its edges, leaving destruction in its wake. Nobody had time to track it. It was sudden and large. It did not obey any of the rules of weather. It could not have been predicted. It skewed all weather programs drastically, as they urgently reconfigured, and none of the freak accidents to follow would be able to be predicted, and they would all upset the programs further.

The hurricane was loud and swirling as it danced to the merging of colors at the far end of the world as the sun slowly dipped beneath the sky, it could not bear to see such beauty destroyed. The moon kept watch, waves and oceans rose further and higher and angrier, and uselessly, such a picturesque landscape being destroyed by the mindless raging cyclones of wind. Nothing like it had been seen before. When it was done, the land on which it had inflicted its pain was a shadow of its former self.