Amazing the wind…
Robust, energetic, mystical.
I can’t fathom being a squirrel, burrowed in a nest of old leaves and twigs, on top of the highest branches of the evergreen outside our house.
The tree, a mythical giant, hovers over us.
Much older than the former resident of this tiny beach cottage, weathered and worn, built shortly before the second world war. Our own burrow here on the ground.
I gaze at its roots and then its upper body, swaying back and forth gracefully.
Gigantic and flexible….
Dancing with ease.
Born from an age once recorded only on paper, its distant relative, now tucked away in someone’s forgotten dusty old library.
One day it too will have its own journey, forge its own tale, its transformation, reincarnation, into fire, heat, energy. A domicile for moss, ants, spiders, and other species, feeding off it, using it for shelter.
It’s been battered by weather and storms much worse than this. But the wind has gathered up steam since morning, and everything has its limits.
The chime hanging in the yard is jingling and jangling, singing in spits and spurts, speaking to no one in particular.
Maybe the wind…
It soothes me, as I imagine it would anyone. Then a sudden gale… and a moment of caution and circumspection falls over me.
It seems evident, a divine right, a universality, written in our chromosomes and genes, that we will all witness a grey clad sky with waves of gusting air as part of our passing.
The foretelling of things to come.
Things that if we could only see and understand might unlock secrets even we don’t know we have.