It's cool, but not chill. The grass rustles, dew drops from the morning already crystallized into tiny shards of ice that will melt at the first hint of heat, which the soft breeze doesn't quite provide. It snakes in and out of the blades of green, parting around and flowing over the trunk of a tree. Up it goes, skimming over rough bark and detouring back around itself as it hits a snag, a branch.

It rustles through the leaves and small, colorful flowers, then combs its fingers through, leaves and petals snagging on the wind. The leaves fall to the ground in slow motion, while the petals catch, not quite fully formed, and are buoyed along on the breeze, far away from their home.

They skim over grass, tumble past weeds, then float up and up and up, gravity powerless in the face of the wind, picking up, sweeping them away, past trees and water, past the sunlight and the darkness, into sweet, weightless air. And then there's nothing but the breeze, and light, and a stream of drifting petals.