Stillness

I have been thinking of one word: stillness.
Outside, the garden is everything but still.
Green and wet, more than wet: moist. Not a lot grows in the garden. The owners of the house dread the same forest they have wounded with this house too close to the mountain, so they have weeded everything within the walls, and planted plain lawn grass.
Now that the rain season has come, the garden strives to become one with the outside mountain.
The cats, too, are restless, they hunt and smell intently. There is a breeze. And a whole new palette of colors is born every morning.