They set out in a downpour that washed down their windshield for the first twenty miles as they climbed through mountains.  The rain didn't stop them from admiring the forest mists at each turn. She gulped at the third curve.

"A little trigger happy," she said.

"What does that mean?" 

"You know exactly what it means."

He argued, but his foot was already lighter on the pedal.  A minute later, he was rolling under the speed limit and worrying about the hand on her head. They cracked the windows. The mist rushed in to greet them and clear their heads. 

"Cold out." 

"Crisp-p."

They came out of the forests and the country opened up. Tilled fields were turning green in the rain.  The mist was further off now, hanging amongst trees that hid white farm houses. Her hand fell from her head.  She gasped and pointed. He smiled. He had hated stopping. Hated errands and detours. But on this day he didn't hesitate to swerve into every muddy pit of gravel his eyes could find through the rain.  Because he loved to get out and stand beside her. Loved to breathe the cold air in through his nostrils while she worked. Loved to look at her there and then out over the hills and think: he was living in the greatest years of his young life.  And he loved to watch her think as she captured their world.

The Waves whispered to her for they knew her to be lonely.  All day her toes had curled in the sands. Every night her boots stepped up into the hills, muffled by the moss of the forests. The birds above would hush the squirrels as she traveled forward underneath them. Snakes would stop slithering in wonder.  The Sky would call the Sun just in time for her morning hunt. On and on and on as though her legs never tired and her eyes needn't close.  Soon the Moon would grow curious and arrive in time to see her return to the beach, where she'd wave farewell to her distant friend on the horizon and, though the Moon would never admit it, the Moon would blush pale as moons do when she lifted her chin and smiled in its glow. 

She baffled them all, the bright little creature, and all of them asked the Waves, who said little about the whispers or her replies.  A barrage of questions assaulted the Waves from every direction.  The Sun, the Clouds, the Moon, and all manner of watching animals came to the Waves with their inquiries.  Though it was arduous, the Waves remained loyal to the girl and said nothing.  

But the Moon was more persistent than the others, and jealous of the secretive Waves. One night, the Moon tugged and pulled the Waves far off from the beach. She returned from the forest full of secrets and eager to whisper and saw the Waves far off onto the horizon, so she ran to them. But it was late in the night.  The Moon could not hold the Waves from the anxious rising Sun, and the Waves fell upon her in the great tug of war. 

Clouds hung about that beach for many years after that. The Sun flew by on its way, always curious as to where she disappeared to, and always blaming the clouds for hiding her.  The Moon showed only its sides that weren't weeping, the chain of grief everlasting. And the Waves went on to keep their greatest treasure, she whose whispers were now their own.

It was an incessant beeping. Then another on the upbeat of the first. Alarms ringing. His head throbbed.  The list of task upon task upon yet another tedious no good in the long run task ran through his head for the fifth time in five minutes.  A woman demanded his attention. Not a question or a need, but an order disguised as advice.  His favorite.  The same meaningless dialogue played out behind the counter and he ran for quiet. He ran from the beeping. He tore open the heavy steel door and hid beside the shelves of stacked dairy discharge and closed his eyes. The air was quiet there and it only took a moment before he heard them.

Birds. Birds were singing.  And wind. And there he saw the red bark of the old trees cradling green. A natural green.  A green he loved.  He stepped forward. There was no sticky cloth clinging to him. His bare feet felt the mosses and his legs were light.  He could leap again.  And his arms pulled him to the height of the old trees where he saw the blue of the world.  The coming of rain. It washed down him and his head held nothing. A nothing of sight and sound and smell and the taste of the air.  And he was free.

The steep hook of his brow kept his eyes hidden from me. Two shadows for eyes.  The looming' bastard.  A broken bottle hadn't quite snapped where I'd wanted it to, and my hand was bleeding for it.  The bastard moved for me. I could see it in his shoulders. He was so proud of them. Giant knots of muscle. But they gave him away now.  I slipped left under his poor excuse of a straight. The slowin' bastard. I let my bottle catch him under the arm as I stepped around and came across his jaw with my left. It was like swinging at concrete. I'm bettin' my hand hurt worse than his face at that point, but the glass had cut him sure enough and he was totterin' left and right.  I was full of it, whiskey, so I held my arms out and yelled up to the Gods. Yeah, I was full of it. And that's when he got me—least that's what they told me afterwards. The cheap shottin' bastard.