“The earth has music for those who listen.” [George Santayana]
The wind talks to me. Everyday at the same time, twilight, he makes an appearance. The sun lowers on the horizon, the day cools, and he wakes from his nap. Some days he whips through the backyard taking me in his arms, and we waltz across the brittle grass. After our sashay he spirals away, into the mimosa tree murmuring sweet nothings among the laden branches. The tiny pink blossoms cascade like snow at his feet. He retrieves them, tosses them skyward where they meander in his updraft, and finally settle like old friends into my hair.
On other evenings he catches me off guard. Suddenly he’s there by my side, lifts a tendril of hair, tucks it behind my ear, whispers my name, and scampers off to entice the songbirds with his easy currents, allowing them to drift in his wake with little effort. They sing him their thanks.
On the evenings he doesn’t visit, when the air is heavy and still, when the effort to rise is hampered by the accumulated heat of the day, I miss him. I listen, and long for his approach.
arrives in stealth
sweeps me off my feet