The Wizard of Oz: Kurdining in the Rain

Kurdining in the Rain The rain arrives silently, first with a faint coolness brushing against cheeks before gradually weaving into a vast gray net. Looking up, the snow-capped mountains blur as if veiled in thick curtains; the clouds, no longer gently lingering around the mountain slopes, surge like a torrent of pale gray, cascading straight toward the peaks as if to engulf the entire range in primordial chaos. The spruce forest at the mountain's base is now thoroughly drenched. The greenery of the trees seems deepened by the rain, seeping out heavily, almost black. Every trunk glistens wetly, rainwater trickling down the rugged bark like silent tears. The sound of rain grows denser, tapping on countless pine needles, merging into a constant, profound rustling—as if the entire forest is breathing evenly, exhaling moisture in the soaking rain. Occasionally, a sudden "flap" echoes from the dense foliage—a crow! Shaking its waterlogged wings, it clumsily takes flight from the dripping branches, its black figure cutting through the rain like an ink stroke splitting the chaos, stubbornly patrolling its sodden kingdom. The mountain stream is no longer its usual clear, lively self. Swollen by the rain, its voice changes entirely—the delicate tinkling of a maiden vanishes, replaced by the muddy current roaring through stone crevices with a dull, relentless rumble. The water, stained earthy yellow, churns and sweeps up broken twigs and leaves, charging blindly downstream with brute force. In the forest clearings, the grass, saturated with water, sinks softly underfoot, each step plunging into abundant moisture. Puddles form in the hollows, reflecting the rain-washed pine branches above and the gray sky with startling clarity. The rippling reflections, shattered and reformed by falling raindrops, create countless tiny ripples, blurring the line between reality and illusion. Water droplets gather at the tips of pine needles, growing heavier until they fall with a soft "plop," landing squarely on the broad burdock leaves below, which shudder as if startled by the cold touch. The rain weaves silently, stitching the mountains, forests, streams, and grass into a single damp, gray-green tapestry. All of Kurdining seems submerged in an ancient silence, broken only by the clamor of water—rushing, flowing, dripping. The air is thick with the rich scent of rain-activated pine resin and the deep, earthy aroma of soaked decaying leaves—a fragrance laced with the faint musk and chill of life's cycle, silently proclaiming that all things breathe deeply in this rain, their drenched forms embracing a freshly cleansed vastness. In this rain-laden silence, time itself seems soaked, growing slow and heavy. Each falling droplet is like a tiny sigh from the ancient forest or an indecipherable whisper—the rain polishes not just the pine needles but also the slumbering years buried deep in the humus, as if turning over quietly under its ceaseless patter.