Nature also inspires

Hello everyone On this occasion I want to participate in a contest held by @fannyescobar about Contest: Nature also inspires. Here is my previous entry I would like to invite friends @thaizmaita @tuhin002 @petrarodriguez to participate in this contest

With the first rains after a particularly long dry season, the Nayana valley itself sighed in relief. The grass, which had been yellow, changed into a waving carpet of green. The cloudy crease of the hills lay half in mist, and from among the rocks, flowers were fleeing to don the new suite of the year and to celebrate its rebirth in as well.

Halfway up the valley dwelt one Pak Loka, an old man. He was considered a protector of nature — not in an official capacity, but in terms of his authenticity. He strolls every morning by a short river, greets the birds perched on the branches and picks up the dry leaves for natural fertilizer in his garden of small dimensions.

“Nature is a long-suffering instructor,” he said one day to Lita, his granddaughter, who came to him for the holidays. “He doesn’t get mad even when he gets hurt all the time.

Lita, used to the city, found it very uncomfortable at first. There he spoke to her about the birds of paradise who had come to visit; the tigers whose spoor was everywhere; the legend of the fog, which was said to be the ghosts of the ancestors of the forest, and to come to-day to gaze upon the old man.

“Listen,” he said one evening. “This valley has a song. You can only hear it if your heart is at rest.”

Lita closed her eyes. All at once she heard nothing but the sound of the wind. Then, the gurgling of water. The sound of falling leaves. The chirping of night insects. it was still blended in and flowed gently as a song the earth has written. Lita wanted to cry for no reason at that time. Maybe it was because she didn’t feel little here, or maybe because for the first time she felt claimed by the world, not because of what she had but because of who she was as a tiny part of nature.

Her vacation days used up, Lita headed home with a small bottle of water from the river, a few pressed leaves in a notebook and a vow to herself: One day, she would be back. And the Nayana Valley would keep on waiting, singing in the rain, whispering its tale to anyone who cared to hear.