An Ode to the Barrenness
Once, a meadow drowning in wildflowers inhabited this land. It was idyllic; the swing hanging from a willow’s branch swayed in the honey-sweetened breeze as Blue Tits whistled merrily to one another. They were often chased by the less visually extraordinary Linnets, but they were merry all the same. Standing in front of the solitary house, you would believe you had stumbled into an aviary, brimming with exotic birds. Surpriingly, each of the birds were typical of this region. Exoticism came from how each layer of birdsong wove into the other. The tapestry of sound could only have been crafted by Apollo himself. Each chirp and tweet felt as profound as the next, leading you to believe you had never heard a thing like it before. A brook percolated through the stones and pebbles right by this meadow’s edge. It too seemed to dance along to Apollo’s symphony. In the summertime, the quiet gargle of the shallow brook felt as though it could trickle away even the darkest of sins with its calm, intentional licks. Crickets were the only ones who could avoid its intoxicating coolness on the hot days, as they chirped in one of the many patches of purple lupins dotting the opening around the house. It was such a heavenly sight to behold, then.