As I write this, somewhere, a cloud is being born, as the sun kisses the oceans. It will go through infancy and trials and tribulations all through until it condenses and makes its way back into the soil creating life wherever it flows.
Meanwhile, a seed carried away from its parent by an unforeseen circumstance made its way to a far-off land. It thrives in the company of new friends, much to take and much to give than its thought could have ever anticipated. A tree blooms to reach the sky.
The untouched river flows and ebbs with the seasons. Accepting the season’s abundance as its gifts, accepting its lacks too as its gifts. It inhales and exhales time. Flows and ebbs. Plays and rests.
The wind reaches out to everyone, the primordial and the modern, the colossal and the tiny, in a bid to make friends. All the while being itself. It crushes some and is called wrath, it dances with others is called grace. Still the wind all along it is, not a want to become anything else.