Child of the Weather

You were with me today when I met her. She is a child of the weather.

It was sunny. The type of sunny where nothing moves, the trees stood still, the wind went elsewhere to play.

She was sitting at a shelter at the playground. Overlooking a sea of sand, I snuck a peek at her, with the side of my eyes, underneath the hood of my jacket, pretending to wipe the perspiration off my forehead.

Then without looking at me, she waved in my direction.

huh?

I looked unabashedly.

She's so young. in her teenage years. In a pair of school shorts and school p-e tee-shirt, with the wordings faded, and the silhouette of her figure showing with the sun. Her hair is in a pony tail. She is pretty.

She looked back and smiled.

I smiled.

And she beckoned me to her. And so I went to her.

And we sat down side by side.

She whipped out a mentos bar and offered me one.

She asked me if I'm feeling warm. "Not warm?"

"A little bit."

Then I took out what I came out to write to write.

The sky is blue beyond the stillness of the trees. The sun is forthright and frank. The occasional falling leaf or flower. Who can help but wonder what she was doing there? But since I don't want her to ask me I shall not ask her.

I draw a picture of a leaf.

She peeks and says,

"You know the leaves dance with rain?"

"But of course, it gets heavy and the branches will sway."

The trees must be amused.

"No, I mean the fallen leaves. They do the jitter-bug."

"Oh then I didn't know. Really?"

"Yes, I think you'll see soon."

She sighs, and like magic, it rains.

And the pock-marks begun to form on the sand, and the big leaves and the small leaves pop around and jitterbug with the giant black ants who never stop working.