being washed

A breeze scattered a couple papers on my desk.

I looked up from my room supervisor’s manual and saw that a student must have opened the window during our in-room break during State Testing.

As I realigned my papers, it blew in again.

It wasn’t cold, but it it couldn’t be called warm either.

It had a hint to it.  A secret it carried.  Something it wanted to share, but didn’t know how.

If I closed my eyes and concentrated while letting it wash past me, I could almost touch it.

Warming earth.

Green stems just below the soil’s surface.

Buds waiting in branches.

I stood to roam the room and as I glanced to see that everyone was working on the correct test, and I heard the song of the robin.

A change of season.

Newness.

 

 

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