Leal

The wind in springtime, a nomad soul, wanders over the bushes, brick-covered roads, prairies, and meadows as if it is in search of a friend from yesteryear. It gathers a few dry leaves from recent years to consult. At that opportune moment, the sand dust jumps on its lap with a whooshing tune for a joy ride across the landscape. A rhythmic symphony emerges from the sound of dropped leaves and sand dust landing on hard surfaces after their wind-sailing, inviting the heart to dance. The sun, with its warm touch, caresses the wrinkled skin, peeling off the winter’s rust from the old bones. Everything – the new green leaves, jubilant birds, busy bees on flower beds, and consoled souls recovering from the winter spell – all are ecstatic. The sky-blue sky, with its jolly white puffy clouds, transforms the surroundings into a dazzling celebration for the attentive residents. These were the memories of spring in the western US before the COVID pandemic eradicated tranquility and normalcy. Where might she have eloped, and why? Frequent triple-digit heat has replaced mild temperatures, and the weather has undergone a consequential transformation, it seems. Ominous, menacing clouds often cover the cheerful sky and its animated inhabitants. Crisp breezes that once offered a healing touch turned into hostile winds.

The spring, along with the other seasons’ tempo, is out of sync, and its fervor is infrequent, often with a pale hue. But the leaves are still born from the soil and return to it as the seasons change. So are all the breaths that turn into air, perhaps, to join the Kafila of a spring breeze. A fulfillment of a “leal” promise of nature, of life. To carry where the leaves of splendor, shape, and color, the dust, the soil, the discarded from the bygone periods should have been, if not there already!