by Rembrandt Ramilo
One afternoon,one o’clock, in my usual bicycle ride, entertained by the different road scenes in its course, the coniferous Indian trees, hog farm, a black chicken in the middle of the road, the little girl dragging her small bicycle, yellow and red orange ‘gumamela ‘ flowers, are all amusing.
I stop to rest near a mango tree,no flat rock or a stump big enough to sit on, leaning on my bicycle while standing, I drank a small amount of bottled pure mountain spring water.
A queer tree, from the root the trunk grows about twenty feet sideways at twenty-five degree angle to the ground then went straight up. The dense leaves giving me a shade and comfort against the heat of the day, permitting me to gaze on the sun above, protecting my eyes as they refract the direct perpendicular noon light.
I hear the wind because of the rustling of the leaves,taking away my weariness,when its forceful current touches my skin, giving a cool feeling and relief, refreshing my whole body just like how the spring water did to quench my thirst.
The sound of the wind is united by the trickles of the narrow stream by the edges of the ricefield, chorused by the chirping of the agile small black with white feather birds swinging here and there.
A fifteen mile per hour wind, rushing with interval across the wide plain, while I am being immersed by the view of the pleasant landscape.
At the nearer horizon, beyond the outline of coconut trees, are beautiful huge mountains varicolored blue and green, under the floating cumulus fluffy clouds tinged by pastel gray partly hiding the blue sky.
In a moment, drawing my attention to a certain sight, yonder at the west side, two hundred feet from where I stand, hundreds of bright white birds flying together in circular motion, resembling like a parade on air over and around an Olympic stadium with an annular space in the center.They are not there to stay for long, in a little while, they are gone.
After they disappeared to my view, a lone white bird appears wandering a little higher over the summer meadow. I thought it is one of them,perhaps looking for friends, I wished it will find them eventually.
The wind, still blowing, a magical shelter during my restful short stay here under this bower. Who can forget the wind of November?
As I leave, I glanced at the white bird. It is still there, energetically flapping its wings near the swaying green grass….. alone…contented.
Author’s Note on The Wind of November
At the time of its writing, storm Haiyan was still somewhere in the Pacific ocean. In a few days time, Haiyan hit the Philippines about 500 kilometers from the site in this piece.
Editors Note on The Wind of November:
The Wind of November is not the first piece by Rembrandt Ramilo published in Eastlit. He has previously been published in Eastlit as follows: