Day 147

Bells in the meadow.

The meadow and the woman

The meadow wondered if the woman would come today.

The raccoon had reported seeing her pale face reflecting the moon one night as she trailed behind her giant noisy sons up the path to the house.

The newest chipmunk had given an account of a dearth of seed, even though they could see her shape travelling past the windows.

Occasionally in the mornings she had come to the edge, where the road empties into the grass, and coughed a bit, but then had turned again with the black dog for home.

The meadow missed her.  It had grown accustomed to her presence at some time each day, had felt her firm feet muffled by the soft blanket of winter snow, magnified by drought-packed summer earth, rippling through the many-coloured leaves of autumn, and avoiding young milkweed shoots in spring.

It had enveloped her in its arms when she sat crying on the old bench.  It had made certain that the occasional falls had not been bad ones, she had broken no bones.  It had shone and sparkled with her on her sunny days.

And here she was at last!  Entering the meadow in her sky-blue shoes, looking around her amazed at a week's developments.  The meadow hastily put on its best behaviour:
Grasses waved gently at the woman, some caressing her waist. 
Little star flowers shone amidst the greenery.
A bush of white daisies appeared out of nowhere to delight the woman.
Birds flew across and across again, swooping and soaring and revelling in their flight.
Other birds stood high on their narrow legs, singing their green songs. 
Frogs croaked at her from their luscious pond.
Celandine enchanted her with its careful yellow and green covering of the old dry ribs of another plant.
The birches stood tall and white-barked, telling her their old old stories.
The abiding great oak quietly beckoned her to rest beneath its shadow.
Buttercups glowed like nebulae in the shady grass, little lanterns for her feet. 
And the sky turned slowly and contemplated the woman as she jogged her circuit three times.

And at last, reluctantly, the tired woman slipped out of the circulating eddies of the field and started for home.  Once again she had been woven into the meadow's memory.  She looked down at herself, discovering that she was like a bee, dusted all over with pollen, quite golden.