Beneath the boardwalk along Anderson Pond, the grasses grow tall and golden, sustaining the direction of a south wind. It begins at the far-off copse and rustles like distant timpani.
crescendo builds. All the grasses bow, their pizzicato prayer hands plucking. And my own hair, a wind-blown grace note, plays along. Softer breezes strum the water surface. Ripples trickle all the way across.
Ascending, it sweeps through the forest canopy— I hear it whisper a long time still.