A loquacious breeze, all a-chitter chatter, its infinite words a most merry amorphous blur, arrived on the first day of spring. Jocund it was, warm and gay, spritely, air pirouettes spun with grace. The new aromas of buds, of foliage and petals too, it bore as a happy task, an honour bestowed to few and accepted with robust humility. Yet it would not be a somber thing, this bringer of sweet scent, yet a gregarious jester of unspoken largesse.
The breeze played with her hair giving it the same buoyant wave as the sea so close by.
The air that had been so still on previous days had gain a slight movement, as if it had discovered its direction yet was content to meander at its own pace.
The breeze that day was but the wind in calm meditation.
The breeze came with that sense of balance, the wisdom to move yet at a steady calm pace.