Hardly A Breath of Wind

There is hardly a breath of wind.

The day is still, and warm, and it starts to rain as I walk, just a summer mist at first, kissing as I walk.

The hedgerows wave, rich and abundant, in the hardly a breath of wind: bramble flowers showing off with their pinkness and their whiteness, the first raspberries peeking out, wildly raspberry red, not yet ripe but tempting, regardless.

Grasses wave in the hardly a breath of wind while the field of the buttercups teases in a shade I do not know: cream, vanilla, earth, yellow, golden, the colour of a painting, the colour of abundance, the colour of the grasses, dancing on the machair, the colour of this butterfly buttercup field, moving, slowly, in the hardly a breath of wind.

Birds call with the the breath of the wind: oystercatchers flashing down the river, swallows dancing above the grasses in the fields, by the hedgerows rich with clover where the bees buzz and flies sing with the softest breath of summer.

By the river, the rain becomes heavy, torrential, and I shelter for a while beneath the trees. The leaves move gently, not with the hardly a breath of wind, but with the rain, falling splashing kissing, smoothing the warmth of the air and the stillness of the summer’s day, sultry, and still, with hardly a breath of wind.

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