XV. Hearing the Wind then Feeling it, Leaves Rustle

Unrolling my meditation mat in front the shrine I erected up atop Rileys Peak, I thank the natural surroundings for granting me this peace. I feel these valleys calling and feel compelled to be with them, my duty extending across the trees and the heartbeats of all the forest critters thawing out from a long freeze. Illusions of my being the patron saint of foxes of fauns. No holiness in my meditation. Forced by the overwhelming reflection of the sun against the snow, my eyes are forced closed and I enter stillness, somewhat assured I would not be disturbed. A crow caws, A woodpecker hollows a fresh hole in a tree. My scent will soon be natural here too, mixing with the greenery emerging from the dissipation of the snow. Hearing the wind then feeling it, leaves rustle. But the sound is vanished, and only effects remain. The winds howl always a whimper by the time it reaches my nostrils. I smell it and then vanquish it through exhales.


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