...an echo of peace

She swings back and forth, and flies forwards, thighs high in a leap and bound. The air plays with her hair; the sun kisses her skin in kindness. The clouds follow her in the patches of blue above. Nature loves her, and she loves nature, she is nature, and nature is her. The trees hum a soulful song as the clouds dance above, the wind swinging the plants to and fro, their scents, bent twist and twirl. She darts through the forest, catching bark in her grasp, clasping vines in her palms. Barefoot, she lives, happy she lives. The ground is soft, and she moves over it in a gliding motion.



She pauses at the base of a beautiful oak, a tall and mighty tree. She hugs the tree, and whispers her message of beauty, and the mighty tree stands taller, and stronger. She runs from her old friend.



The stream is clean and clear, and the air hangs bitter in cold strings above it. She approaches the calmness of the river, and dips her head into the stream. So sweet, so clean, so calm, so…



Flutterbys pass in the air, as the girl plants herself in the middle of a field of flowers. She takes root, and lies in the small clearing. She stares into the sky, so blue, so pure. The wind flings itself across the grass, and the green sways in a dance. A small flutterby returns, and lands on an extended finger. Its golden wings fold and extend, fold and extend fold and extend… an echo of peace.



The beauty of the forest, the beauty of the field, the beauty of her, the beauty of harmony, and the beauty of the world, nothing compares.



The ugly of the city, the ugly of the trucks, the ugly of him, the ugly of his destruction, and the ugly of the world he brings, nothing compares.



The truck stopped short of the forest, and the man stepped out of the large polluting beast. The man’s boot digs deep into the earth, and crushes a flower beneath, burying it in the mud. His weight moves the ground beneath him in hateful large thumping. He takes a pack of cigarettes from his stained and messy shirt. Lighting a match, and sucking in the air, he takes a deep draw sending a spiral of putrid air. He moves across the ground, tossing the spent match into the mud, and spits into the mud. He removes his axe from the back of the truck, and trudges towards the forest.



The sky moves to mirror the emotion of the earth. The rain clouds form, and gather and circle in a dance, slowly. There is a mist, followed by a drip or two.



Drifting from sleep she opens her eyes in time to greet the first drop of rain. Drifting from sleep she opens her eyes in time to catch the cries of something above, someone above. Her hands, comforting and calm, cup the ground in her hands, and she listens to its woes. She uproots, and runs, and she knows, and she can feel it in her veins in her blood and her hair, her toes and she knows she fears. Her feet take flight through the sea of flowers, the rain follows. The colors whirl past her and the scenery deepens. There is this uncomfortable knocking and rocking coming from ahead. She can see the pillar of smoke ahead, and she can taste what has entered the forest. She can feel the sorrow of the trees ahead.



The axe goes deep into the side of the mighty tree. It digs deep into its bark, and breaks into its flesh. The machinery of his motion is inhuman, unfeeling, unnerving. And he continues, to wreck the beauty of the tree with his ugly. The rain mourns at him, and he is drowned in the sorrow. But his parts keep moving, his wires pump adrenaline into his veins, and he continues, rain dripping off his hat.



Her feet dig into the dirt, and clouds are formed in her wake. Her speed increases, the wind egging her on. The rain pours, and it shares the sorrow of the ground. They intertwine and mix and cry. She runs, to the aid of her old friend, swinging back and forward thighs high. The thump and clumps and bumps sounded like thunder, and drowned out the lighting of the storm. The clouds grew violent, and the rain stung. It pierced the hard skin of the lumberjack, and bounced off the soft skin of the girl.



The thumps and clumps and digging bumps continued in the heavy rain, and the machine like man drove on. There was a split second, when the drenched cigarette puffed out, and the glazed eyed man noticed the bark less flesh he drove into. His axe didn’t shudder the way it did when he drove into a tree. It didn’t have the weight of an ancient tower, with elderly bark. The sap of the tree dripped and mixed with the blood of the girl. They intertwined and mixed and cried.



The lumberjack didn’t realize what he had done. He didn’t see the girl in the heavy rain, didn’t see her spread her arms in front of her old friend, didn’t notice until after he had driven his axe into her side, that there was something other than a large oak in front of him. She slumped down against the tree, and the rain pushed her tears down her face. The freshly cut tree bent in the wind, the freshly cut girl tipped over and fell into the gathering sea of rain water. The man staggered back, and ran from his destruction. The rain was heavy, and it was hard to see.  The rain was justice, sweet revenge, stinging deep into the man’s skin, blinding him.



He didn’t see the beauty of the mossy rock in front of him. He didn’t see the roughness of the river beside the rock. His body was numb from the cold rain, and his feet never felt the sharp sting of the rock. He floated through a heavy frozen mist above the river. The man fell into the rough and violent waters below. His boots dug into the mud on the bottom of the river, and he couldn’t lift his feet clear of the muck. He moved slow through the water, and trashed about drowning. The man couldn’t feel the sharp jetting rock that hit him in the head, the cold had numbed him. The river swept him fast, and with the weight of his cloths, his unconscious body sunk and stayed buried in the water. A trail of his blood mixed with the rain and river.



The giant and magnificent oak leaned out above the girl. It stood over her, and mourned its old friend. The girl died, the trees cried.



There is a patch of flowers below the base of the slanted great tree. The flowers are great in size, they are beautiful in their yellow hues, and softened ques. Red shadows the blues, and greens. A small flutterby passes, and returns. Stopping and landing on the hilt, of an old rusted axe.  Its golden wings fold and extend, fold and extend fold and extend… an echo of peace.