L'Homme Vert

The grass sways gently under the light. I feel the soft blades between my fingers, the soil beneath gently rasping my palm. I close my eyes as the weak sun already fades behind the mountains.

The night sky greets me when I open them again. Stars dance accross the atmosphere, always running from the return of the sun behind me. A gush of cold wind makes me shiver, but I endure, for the warmth will soon come.

The cycle repeats itself a few time. I breathe slowly, patient. What I came here for is worth the wait.

It starts with shy buds reaching for the skies, until they unfold in a petal explosion. The flower field is blossoming right under my nose. Some wild animals come and go to see the show for themselves, moving fast like shadows in my sight. I stay there, motionless. Soon enough, some of them gather the courage to get closer. Petals fly around me by the time a bird perches on my head, whistling.

As days go by, I gaze upon my surroundings. The flowers are gone but the grass still follows the whims of the wind. The bird now nests in the tree behind me. Birdlings soon start crying out for food as the tree is losing its leaves to the breeze. The trunk is steady, unmoved by time, watching over this plain for much longer than I have. A forest marks the frontier between this place and the rest of the world. The trees are younger on the edges, still visibly growing every time I watch them, sign of the woods nibbling at the meadow to take its place. The grassland doesn't seem to mind, continuing to sway peacefully.

For a moment, a mouse under my hand takes shelter from the rain. I close my eyes and feel the tapping of water on my head. They flow like teardrops on my whole body, watering the earth dried by summer.

The sunlight lingers more and more, until the night gains the upper hand again and snatches more time in the sky. By the time the warmth starts to decline, I almost want to get up to other horizons. But the young birds are so close to take flight...

The red and gold leaves accompany their first leap. Their clumsy wings flap desperately until I see them disappearing in the azure. The nest is abandoned now. A fox is nestled on my lap, having probably hoped for an unfortunate fall. He flees in the autumn breath, red upon red. I notice the absence of the shuddering of leaves behing me; the bare old tree is preparing for the winter.

I breathe again, taking in the smells. The fox left a musky sent, the wind carries the perfume of fallen apples and nuts. The earth smells of petrichor from the last rain. In the land of men afar, there is faint smoke, smell of roasted meat and chestnuts. From far enough; though I should not halt here for too long.

The wild life begins to treat me as if I weren't there. I make my breathing faint, when one of them approaches, as to not startle them. Squirrels and deers move around me as they would around a rock, a forgotten statue. Moss is starting to grow over me. I don't mind.

The night slowly went over the sky before rays of the sun rise nonchalantly above the mountains, sparsely distributing warmth. The mountains have been covered in snow for eternity, now snowflakes begin to fall on the field.

A day goes by, then another, and snow keeps falling until everything turns white. A thin layer of powder lays on me. I taste snowflakes as they melt on my mouth.

Suddenly, I glance at my side to see a young girl, straying too far from her village. I stay still, watching her. She approaches me, her boots sinking in the milky blanket, her breath a puff of steam, the green of her dress a pale memory of spring. Her brown eyes pierce me, glowing in the morning light. She stays there for a moment that seems like an eternity, though the trees stand still in the winter wind, though the birds freeze in the sky, though the snowflakes fly on the spot. Then, just as suddenly, she leaves running.

I spend the next days reminding myself of her vivid eyes, finding their darkness in the trunks of the trees, their brilliance in the eyes of the does. I remind myself of everything I didn't have time to take in, of every fold in her dress, every line in her face, every lock of her hair. Then, hypnotized by the beauty of the winter scenery, I forget. Clouds wallow in the grey sky, round and fluffy, mirroring the color of the ground, only betrayed by the black carvings of branches and trunks. A white rabbit is gnawing at its last reserves of the season. A little bird comes on my lap and sings a song about oblivion. I feel the soil with my fingers, savoring the cold of the snow as it is fading away with the return of the sun. I hear the bleating of sheeps marching down the mountains, the bells around their necks echoing in the distance.

The grass emerges from the snow as if nothing ever happened. Leaves bud on the branches, again. As the flower stems rise to their former glory, I sigh. A shy vine has started to grow around my torso, and small yellow flowers are spotting the moss on my body. My hair has grown green.

As I think about seeing the blossoming again, in the distance, the imposing mountains taunt me in their white cloak. There is something about the snow that I want to see again. I desire to feel the creaking of the soft snow under my feet, the spiky cold, taste the clear water of the river flowing down its flanks... I do not want to wait for winter.

But I should take my time.