Spell

It is incredibly still tonight. The air seems almost entirely without substance, its movement no more than one would expect had it been stirred by the wings of a single butterfly. There must be wind farther up, because I see the silver-edged, moonlit clouds drifting. But here all is stillness, and a silence broken only by the chirping of one lone cricket. I must draw very near the jasmine hedge to smell its perfume, as there is no breeze to spread it about. Up close it is very strong, but twenty feet away, imperceptible.

The air is probably cooler than it feels, but it enfolds me like an invisible blanket, holding my body heat close. I have the urge to run, just to make the air seem to move, to feel it flowing around me, but the stillness has crept into my bones, and I barely move myself. Something has cast a spell on the night, and there seems to be nothing that can break it. I wonder if I will be caught in it forever? Maybe I am not myself. Maybe I am one of those mute trees standing sentinel, and have dreamed this human life. Ah, a dreaming tree. There could be worse fates— until the forest fire comes.