Wind

There's quite a gale galloping down the ridgeway towards the bay, spilling fog every-which-way. The houseboat is swaying like worried mother, and I don't feel all that protected right now. Despite the sun's valiant stand off (the bay itself is still basking in bright light and blue sky), the cold seems imminent. This is not the way I like to see things, but it's how I see things.

I forgot about wind. When I lived at Slide Ranch, the nights were often filled with wind coming in from the Pacific. It seemed to reach the Cypress trees right above my trailer first, and with full power fists, it would bash the boughs against the rooftop all night. Dangling branches would creak and pop, and sleep would become a far away thing. During those long nights, it generally wasn't fear that gripped me--more, the sense that these things were trying to say something to me about movement, about chaos, about letting go. I stayed awake in frustration and anticipation of something I sensed I wouldn't realize unless my eyes were open.

Here, today, the wind screeches, hums and howls. In the marina, it pokes at every loose rigging and jangles it incessantly against mast and boom. It feels like the end of something. My heart stands tip-toe, brim-full of possibility that could quite stagnate into dread. I wish I knew what to wish well.