A Breeze Beneath the Hills

On a sunlit afternoon, I climbed the low hills that rose beyond the village, each step drawing me closer to the sky. The wind picked up as I reached the ridge, cool and playful, tugging at my sleeves and hair.

I stood still, letting it pass through me. All around, the grasses bent and waved, and the swallows turned in wide, graceful arcs overhead.

Nearby, a man sat cross-legged in the grass, sketching with a stick in the dust.

“What are you drawing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just following the breeze.”

There was no need to understand it further. The wind was enough. The hillside was enough. Sometimes, it is not thought or effort that brings peace – but the gentle release of both.