I close my eyes.
I close my eyes and the world comes alive.
Above me, motors roar as the gods hurry to whatever their next destination is.
On my left, I hear the shuffling of a small quadruped rapscallion, scampering and sniffing and digging, digging.
To the right, a brook babbles gently.
Behind me, a silent fortress lies.
A cool spring breeze arrives, reminders of an early April day.
The first gust brushes my face, the second tickles my ankles, both flowing, flying away as quickly as they came.
Now the gods in their cars again.
Now the muffled chirps of birds atop their trees, and the loud, acrid chirps of a certain quadruped, and then
I open my eyes.
It is a dreary, gray, February day. Ice on the ground, wind in the air.
My dog comes into sight. There he is, barking, digging away.
Above me, an airplane flies, its motor piercing the air.
Behind me is my house.
The birds have stopped chirping and the sweet rustling of water in my mind is a distant memory.