hilly slopes

The sun was setting on the hilly slopes. The grass was turning from light green, to a darker, deeper sea blue green. The wind was starting to die down, the whistling becoming quieter. Nostrils were overflowing with all the smells. The salty sea breeze lapping by the shore below. The grass that was sighing as it would go to sleep, no more chlorophyll for it tonight, the salty rocks, weathered, and painted by years of waves crashing against them. You could taste the, even though the wind no longer blew, the salt hanging in the air. The ground was soft beneath your feet, the right interlude between soft and firm.

A man walked slowly up the slope of grass. There was a tree by the edge. He walked up to it, stretched up and plucked a fruit from it. A mango. He began to eat. It was loud. Noisy. The juice rolled tongue his tongue. He spat out the skin. Was he littering? Yes. Was it bad? No. The skin would be used by the earth. Decomposed. Composted. Whatever the words were. His eyes were closed in wonder at the taste of this fruit. It was delectable. He sighed, stretched out and plucked three more. He plopped down with a thud by the base of the tree, his back on it, and with that support, he continued to eat. He placed the three mangoes he had picked by his side. The first one was not yet finished. He finished it, placed the seed by his other side, licked the juice off his fingers, and picked up another one.

In due time, he had finished all of the mangoes. He licked his fingers, and when he could lick them no longer, he rubbed them against the soft grass. They were now as clean as they could be without being washed. The waves lapped softly against the shore. He stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff. He looked over. In the dusk sun, it looked beautiful. Light glimmering softly off the waves. The waves mellow and frothy. It was beautiful. He looked over and sighed. Seagulls flapped their wings softly above the oceans, satisfied with their daily feed. They had had enough to eat, and now they were just enjoying gliding over the waves. They looked at rest, as if in a different world altogether, one untouched by all this stress and tension. He looked over the waves. He could see a lazy fish leaping over them, a late fish. What was it doing that for? The sun was almost over the horizon. The day was over. There was no point. Nothing to see. Besides, it was probably prettier down under, where it was. Where it lived. He shook his head, half turned and looked at the seeds and skin he had discarded. All of it would be eaten up by the earth, used. Reused. Used to grow new things. To what end? For it to age and decay? He shook his head, and turned back to the ocean. He looked longingly at the waves below the cliff. He jumped.