I saw this prompt last night and I've been thinking about it all day. I may have been a bit hasty saying "I'm not a writer" the other day, for to answer this prompt is to do what writers do.
I was standing here.
At my back is the Porcupine Foothills. Below and before me stretches the long, low, sloping prairie. The wind dulled people's shrill voices to a low buzzing sound, making it difficult to eavesdrop. It is a constant companion here, making my long hair impossible, our tailgate picnics challenging. It has a sound, surely, but not one that seems separate from the body. It seems to come from within, somewhere, inside my head.
The air can't help but be fresh. The nearest city is more than a hundred miles away. Even if there were something, say, a feedlot with its piles of manure, the wind would scrub the air clean.
Behind me, in the shadow of the hill, looking into the sun, the green was as sharp as blades. Before me, great patches of dark and light played out on the land as the clouds lumbered in front of the sun. Colour seemed muted, light rays from an impossible distance, shattering a little, slipping a bit, before they reached me.
I felt my heart lift. Literally. Physically. It rose out of my chest and dashed to catch that wind. It raced, twisting through the grass, rushing out beyond sight to tumble in the impossibly blue sky. It sought those spaces between the light, the places in between. It found home.
1 comment :
Wow. Very powerful. I'm glad that you had that experience, Alana, and that good things are happening in your life.
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