A butterfly flaps its wings in Beijing, and it rains in [fill in the name of your nearest town.] If anything ever demonstrated the inter-connectedness of earth, air and water, it was the scent on the air this week in Little Rock. The breeze carried the ocean salt on it, a smell I know well from so many years on the East Coast. 

Could it be true? I went immediately to the Weather Channel (earth-porn for those of us in love with Nature), and there it was: Leftover tendrils of tropical storm Fay were drifting toward the north and west.

I felt what I often feel when a sweep of rain catches me; the same rain that, not long before, had rained on someone else. Or the smell of burning wood brought by the breeze when the National Park Service is doing a controlled burn in the Sylamore forest, miles distant from my home in Norfork.

We are connected by threads of the invisible, one place to another. Pollution from China does fall on Seattle. The chemical unthinkingly poured out onto the lawn of a single person seeps into the aquifer shared by all. Nature can isolate us. But is also joins us. In a profound and lasting way. And for that reminder, I thank a little breeze from parts elsewhere that found me in Little Rock.

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