This Wind

It has a personality of its own, this wind. It alternately teases and threatens as it blinds me with my own hair and pushes me along the sidewalk. Even the trees are daunted, shivering at its touch as they never do in spring. They feel its insistent tug on their leaves. They know its mercurial nature, its changeable moods. They know, and so do I.

It smells of autumn, this wind. Crisp and cold, blended echoes of wood smoke and dark moist earth tickle my nose. The stink of seaweed at low tide is equally pungent on a cloudy day. The placid time of green perfume is past. Winter chill rides on this wind.

It has teeth, this wind. I sense its potential to bite as it brushes by my cheek, though when it hints at more than a nip, I have the sense to stay indoors.

It’s a vocal beast, this wind. It whispers through those shivering trees (and what do they hear that makes them tremble so?); it murmurs and moans and even chuckles as it chases the leaves in frantic circles around my feet. Once in a while, it roars. It picks up the ocean and flings it at the shore. It pummels the roof with rain and howls along the street, funnelled between buildings that amplify its voice to epic decibels.

It can also be a friend, this wind. It strokes my hair and kisses my ear, and curls like an amiable arm about my shoulders. I like it best in this congenial humour, when it accepts me as part of Nature’s greater whole. We sit together by the sea, saying nothing. We are aware of each other and content in company—then, without warning, the mood shifts. The sky lowers and the sea grows dark. The waves churn, white-capped and surly, in the rising gale. It’s time to go indoors.

It’s in front of me, this bullying wind. I would hurry, but the playful menace blows me back toward the beach, goading me, pulling at my scarf, tearing at my hair. Seagulls float overhead; they’ve figured out how to work with this wind. So have the little birds. They make themselves into torpedoes and aim themselves for home. What a good idea! I huddle into my coat. I duck my head. I push against the flow and manage to gain the street. It comes from all directions, this crazy-making wind. I can’t see through my hair, I can’t hear past the wailing in my ears, but I persevere and gain the safety of home.

Upstairs, I stand at the window with a mug of tea in my hands. I watch the raging surf and the wild trees, and am reminded of something humbling.

I am so much smaller than this wind.