Write something about: twisting.
Looks like I jumped the gun yesterday, sorry about that. I'll definitely share tomorrow though. I don't mean to be all mysterious about this!
Another big harvest morning, as we picked for the restaurant and a local order of strawberries. I rewarded myself for all that hard work by sleeping most of the afternoon away.
The wind gathers strength as it races across the meadow, barreling toward the forest without fear of the coming impact against bark and leaf. It carries with it the scent of wildflowers and rain and something somber, something more foul.
As it nears the trees it seems to slow, as though hesitant to enter the darkness of the woods. But there is no stopping, no going back. There is only onward.
And so the air flows between branches and over roots, through leaves and bushes. It brushes reluctantly up against clothing and skin, setting the hanging bodies to twisting this way and that.