Saturday essay: The winds
The winds that rose that carried the rains that chased the tropics and heralded the fall have departed. But they brought so much more.
They carried the blasts of the horn of the freight train crossing the trestle in the miles-away valley through the bedroom window and into a mind stirred to journeys past and tracks yet traversed.
They delivered the symphony of the waterfall from the pond two yards below, its steady rhythms, a soothing reminder of youth, punctuated by the syncopated croaks of the bullfrog at rocks' edge.
The winds, too, brought the sounds of the crying baby one yard below, comforted by his mother mimicking, softly, the coos of the mourning dove. And of the still-suckling fawn — crying for its mother, her arrival and both settling in the tall grasses next door.
They also delivered from a kitchen unknown the visuals generated by the smells of some neighbor's late dinner — onions and garlic, peeled, chopped and sauteed, setting the olfactory stage for the delectable entree of, why, yes, of course, sirloin tips. The confirmation quickly was delivered by those same winds.
Yes, through suburban hills and dales — through trees and buildings, over grass and asphalt — the winds that rose that carried the rains that chased the tropics and heralded the fall, in a word, delivered. They will return in due time and deliver more wisps of not only what is but also of what once was and of what is to be.
— Colin McNickle
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