The wind wraps a thick-corded hand around the house and hums. Moving shadows—must be the neighbor’s trees—pass bars of light and dark over the kitchen table through the blinds. I have a pot of chili to make for a party on Saturday, but what I really want to do is curl up in bed with a book and listen to the wind. But I won’t; I’ll bow to the quotidian (laundry, packing) and honor anticipation (a party!) and carve my way through the wind-thick evening.
The day leavens with light, a biting light that fills the sky. But the wind is sharp, sharper than knives, and the day ends raw and cold.
I round a corner and the wind roars down the street, flinging rain. A man in a red turban stands under an awning, watching my progress.
The spring wind today is like a barking laugh in a hushed auditorium. She’s my new best friend, my better half.
Wind-threshed day. Thoughts like chaff, body like grain. Now fallen into night. What might the germ bring forth along a sleep-curved spine?
The wind moved like the wake of a massive beast through the city all day. Breath was stripped, short passage roughened, humility enforced.