Thoreau-like say what?

      As I sit here, eyes locked forward at a single fence post, watching a splinter of the wood flip down, and flip up from the wind, and flip down, and flip up. I cannot help but feel the slight heat from the rays coming down upon my back. Without the accompany of the gracious breeze, a sweat may begin to come about. Dull, cool stone press against my legs, and I stand up find a pillow of green grass, and lie down, crunching the leaves, making them squirm and falter beneath my body. All there is to listen to is the wind galloping in and out of the tree branches, hitting every single one just enough to make them shake. Sounds of a slight chirp of a bird here and a bird there, perhaps singing a song to one another, or flustered by the wind blowing so energenticly. I look straight in front of my head, rested on the grass, the tips of the grass dancing back and forth, leaves widgeting slightly.
    A breeze picks up, rustling the trees even more, almost as if the trees are telling the wind to stop blowing. the win listens, and stops for a moment; only to tease the trees and blow an even larger gust to follow. Leaves skate across the ground, catching on long strands of grass, begging the wind to blow harder and let them free. Isn't that what we all want? For the wind to blow, and blow harder, only to set us free, let us be ourselves, and enjoy what the wind has brought us.