Wind Dancer

In my hidden glen I sit, cross legged, my camera on my lap, and wait. I feel the sun on my face, the warm earth beneath me. I wait, a difficult lesson in patience for me, and wait some more. I hear peep frogs in the trees, the cry of hunting hawks above, and then, suddenly, the soft whir-hum of gossamer wings. They appear, hundreds, flashes of ruby, sapphire and emerald, settling on the tallest branches, and I have to smile and wonder, was I waiting for them? Or had they been waiting for me?

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