Barren. Gray. The winter day (ironically an unusually warm one) reveals leafless branches, patches of brown. Nothing to catch my eye. Sitting in a dark corner of a house barely awake, I hear much. Though outside my periphery, birds insistently chatter on about their day’s plan, while my fingers tap out mine. A school bus makes its appointed rounds, brakes squealing as usual. The chimney whistles. A driver opens up his engine a bit on the road to work. A forceful gust wraps around the house and the branches of shrubs and the taller trees bend under its weight. My ears are finely tuned to the morning, but at last, I see. The wind…
Go to the nearest window. Look out for a full minute. Write about what you saw.
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Nicely done. The wind, the wind, always the wind – my least favorite of the types of weather I’m subject to; but the power of it and the scene it can create are to be respected all the same.
Ahhhh. I grew up on the high plains. the howling. the incessant nature. the rustling cottonwood leaves. the cleanness of it all. I, my writing friend, love the wind.
Egad! “Love” the wind? How can that be so? I grew up in the desert and the winds would come crashing down off the surrounding mountains ridges, tearing through our little town, rattling windows, shaking foundations and spewing sand and dirt in all directions. In winter it would bite through the thickest layers. In summer it would create an inferno and scorch the earth before it. I do not understand your love…
While it clearly can be damaging and wholly frustrating, there’s just something about the power, the constancy. We can’t control it. I like that. LOVE the sounds. absolutely am nuts over watching it pushing a monstrous storm into view. I should have been a meteorologist, obviously…
I will admit there is something about the power of it, and watching it push a storm into view. But, that’s where I draw the line!
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