Wind chimes

The world is as crisp as a polished mirror, as the surface of a lake, with trees and rocks and snow-capped mountains doubled, end to end, two worlds conjoined and breathing as one, except the world on the lake is framed and ripples slightly like a familiar place recreated in a dream, as slippery creatures rise from the depths with bubbles, and insects touch the mirror with tiny feet that only dimple the surface, unlike the diving of birds that shatter it and send fragments and shards of light into the air like handfuls of diamonds tossed at the sun, and the breeze is like the touch of cool fingers in silken gloves and there are wind chimes, wind chimes… This is happiness. This is soft grass under foot, between curled toes, the heavy press and stroke of the clean sheets as we roll and the familiar weight and the heat and the dappled light on the left wall as the sun starts to slide behind the tree outside the window and thin clouds like wispy veils draw themselves across its face to change the light while the wind chime breeze ripples it like water and if you stare at it long enough then everything else disappears and you can feel it flow over your skin and you know that you’re alive. And that nothing else is important.

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