The Meadow’s Quiet, Endless Song

By Peter Bowden


The meadow whispered in greens and golds, a gentle breath caught between daylight and dream. A place where time forgot itself, where the wind moved like a slow exhale, brushing through the wild grass and carrying the faint, sweet perfume of early summer blossoms. Hints of lavender and crushed clover rose with each passing breeze, their colors bleeding into the air like watercolors on wet paper.

A boy wandered there, his bare feet pressing softly into the damp earth, leaving only the faintest impression before the grass sprang back. He held his arms wide, fingertips grazing the dew-beaded blades, eyes half-closed against the hazy light. For him, this place was a sanctuary, a hidden world wrapped in layers of green and mist, where his thoughts flowed freely like a gentle creek, unburdened by the harsh lines of the waking world.

At the heart of the meadow, where the sunlight painted the air in hues of chartreuse and violet, he paused. Here, the shadows played tricks, whispering forgotten secrets in the rustle of leaves and the flutter of moth wings. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the pulse of the earth beneath him—a slow, steady thrum that spoke of ancient roots and forgotten seasons. In that moment, he was not alone but part of a symphony, a single note in the meadow’s quiet, endless song.

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