The wind. It's all in the water, but not really. It is, in fact, all in the wind. From the air we breathe to the winds of change; from that rush of blown leaves that race past you on the winter's eve to that refreshing breeze on a summer's day; from the beauty of laughter to the blowing of a candle; and just like with fire wind rekindles or quenches, this is but a fraction of the story of a leaf in the wind.

I could feel it in my face, the slight changes in direction gently caressed each individual hair in the bare skin. Goosebumps. Every single pore excited by the gentle touch and the ever so slight memory of winter. My eyes could sense it by the fleeting shadows of distant clouds, it played hypnotic rhythms with the tall grass in the fields ahead of us. I could hear it, behind each laugh and after each word as a smiling accomplice. Carrier of memories in the form of scent, of those that come from not space but time. Goosebumps. I could taste rain.

Shrouded by it, linked to its emotions, and victim of the joy of being caught in the moment I felt it carry me to the top. Time and time again, effortlessly and magically. The wind.

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