The Wind Whistled by Michael Browning

The wind whistles loudly. The walls can not block out the sound. It whistles, and the wind chimes sing. They sing their hearts out. The wind whistles, and the leaves rustle. They sing along with the chimes—harmonize with the wind's guidance. Nothing else intrudes upon the silence, and nothing dares interrupt the chorus.

As the wind whistles, I wake up in a tent. Birds sing. The sun is only just now coloring the sky. My sleeping bag is the only warmth in the world, but I leave it anyway. The cold chill is refreshing. I breathe, and fresh air fills my lungs. It smells of grass and flowers, and now the day fills me with excitement. 

The wind whistles, and I’m brought inside. I wake up in my bed. Sunlight peers through the curtains, providing a warm but dim light. Wind chimes sing, and I listen. I lie there for hours, and nothing matters. The days are long and quiet. I sleep in the morning and go outside in the afternoon. It’s always hot outside, but I don’t mind; the heat makes going inside at the end much easier. It gives me something to look forward to. 

The wind whistles, and I’m back outside. Red, yellow, orange, brown—the colors fill my yard. I walk around, and the leaves scream. They interrupt the wind's song. I ignore them and run to the leaf pile sitting by the tree. I jump in. The sun sets, and I don’t hear the wind. I try to go inside, but the front door is locked. Why won’t the wind take me away? It’s dark outside. The leaves crunch as I move towards the road. Streetlights are the only light in the world. I choose one to sit by, and then I cry for hours. I cry my eyes out. 

Yesterday, the wind whistled, and I ignored it. I listened to other songs as I walked. They weren’t as pretty, but the leaves are gone now. The wind chimes have been taken down; I miss them. Now only the wind sings. It sings quietly, but perhaps that’s for the best.