Nothing is happening. There’s no message, no story, just the wind blowing the blades of grass. We feel the breeze catch our hair and the fine strands moving in unison with the grass.
Nothing is happening. We hear the rustle of crisp fallen leaves. On our skin we feel the movement of the early morning breeze that is tossing the leaves as they float down from the tree. Soon they will be on the ground, but for now they are high in the sky valiantly fluttering and soaring.
Nothing is happening. Wind. Emptiness. But this passing moment makes our mind breathe a little easier. The wind is present, yet invisible. Like our breath, present in our body, but invisible.