The light hush of wind shattered the silence. Even broken into small pieces it still shimmered, and she thought it more beautiful that way. Like little slivers of the galaxy it gleamed. She did not know that silence could reflect light in the same way that it reflected connection and thought. Still, the silence would not be broken for long, she was alone. People think mother nature is a rosy cheeked woman, with tumbling brown hair and bright springtime laughter. They think she glides when she walks, and nature bows down to her whim. They think wrong.
Nature is a twisted, but beautifully concrete thing. It refuses to will to anyone, nature has hunched her back and stolen her youth. But she is not angry, she does not curse nature, nor does she believe it owes her anything. Nature created her, from the vines that grip tightly onto stream rocks and the dew drops that shake on strained grass slivers. She is a servant of nature, she is a being who follows the growing mountains and the dying Zenia. Her life is painting veins on the forest leaves, and singing sweetly to the old oaks.
Her hair falls in greasy strings. It’s only upkeep, a casual run through of her fingers. Her course knuckles are mangled like tree roots and suck in the fresh forest air, and her blisters are recordings of stories long forgotten. She does not use the crystal reflection of puddles to stare at herself, she never bothered with haircuts or style. Her beauty is not a superficial thing. It is the smile of yellow teeth she gives the passing crow, or how she does not think of death when an owl crosses the moon. Her beauty is her tattered clothing that consists of heavy knit weeds draped over her shoulders.
She dances at night, her shadow, a partner, draped in moonlight garbs. The howl of the wolves sways her in a Sonata while the crickets perform their symphony number. Her dance is not of grace, nor thanks, but unrequited passion and love for the world. She lets the darkness hold her, her feet flop loudly and she cackles with joy.
The animals do not fear her because they do not recognize her as human, but a separate thing, a better thing. The snake will pass her by, not even stopping to glance up at the pure sky. The wolf will sit in the sun, keeping its eyes closed and its black lips curled in a content smirk. She will pass these and all things, without the want to reach out her hands and grab them, she does not hiss at the snake or weave the wolf’s silver fur between her worked hands.
She like all things feels sadness when she holds a bleeding rabbit in her hands or sees a tailless skink. And anger when the mountains tumble, though she does not claim them as hers, she carved the paths in the rocks and kissed the growing plants. She will die, like all, forgotten. The vines that made her will claim her body for the dirt and the dew drops that once were her will water the vines. The earth that she becomes will hold a plant that will also die. The world will continue, and something else will sing sweetly to the old oaks and paint veins on the forest leaves.