The wooden paddles dip gently into the stream and then pull free, droplets splashing from every surface, as the wheel spins around and around. The near silent passing of the water beneath the mill tickles the air with its whispered murmurings. The creaking of the tired joints is the only sound out of place in an otherwise serene setting.
Splotches of scattered clouds, small but stretching high into the heavens, race across the sky and leave a checkerboard of shade in the waving grasses along the stream. The sun winks playfully as the game transpires. The trees at the far edges of the rolling meadow sway ever so slightly while birds sing to the day and squirrels bicker teasingly.
Ghosts walk through the tall grass and dip their hands in the cool water. They can’t be seen but are felt when eyes close and minds open to the wonders of the world. Their lingering presence caresses the physical life they’ve left behind, in all forms and warmths, in a nostalgic fawning for what they remember but can no longer grasp.
There’s no need to fear these wandering spirits. They cannot leach your energy or vitality. They cannot usurp your dreams or flesh. They simply envy that which they’ve lost and they enjoy the fleeting moments they can sense while passing nearby. Their emotion, however, is as transient as their being and quickly dissolves and changes.