I walk through the woods on a snowy day. The ice crackles through my boots and my hands are freezing but the day is beautiful. The sky is a clear blue, with only the faintest streaks of white. The woods themselves are a majestic fairy land, bejeweled in icicles which reflect rainbows on the dazzling ground. Lovely.
The wind rushes by me, silently, pausing with a soft kiss on my face and a cool caress through my hair. "How are you, love?" I inquire. She flows by me, pleasantly, as if to embrace me. My Catholic faith tells me that nothing of pure nature has a spirit (something reserved for God, angels and humans), but I believe she does. How else does one explain the music she makes with her silence?
The woods are in silence, as if in prayer, in contemplation of their Creator. No living thing dares to take this path except I. My presence is near sacrilege, my boots profane the pure ground with each step. My breath is impure, full of halitosis and mints, nothing compared to the fierce purity of the wind. The darkness of my hair and the colors of my clothes stain the immaculate whiteness of the land. Yet my presence is considered welcome, an honored guest in this palace of creation.
Everything is still. Even my own tracks have ceased as I too enter this celebration of beauty. I can neither sing nor dare to pray aloud, for fear of terminating this holy state. I gaze at the sky and smile. Love, You are beautiful.
I celebrate this music and join the dance.