The Wind's Hand
The sound of wind brushing my ears filled the whole morning. The fingers holding my hat tightened. The moment the wind stopped, there was the sound of the silver grass rising all at once, in order. When the wind came again, my fingers stiffened. All my palm could feel was a single taut cord.
The hand holding the hat down against the wind brushed past the pink geranium in the pot by the gate a few steps ahead. The wind shook the geranium leaves just once and went back out to the road. Where the smell of soil on those fingertips has gotten to by now, I wonder for a moment.
The wind that passed that geranium must have shaken the soil from its leaves and turned it to dust while climbing this ridge, yet the smell of grass still lingers on my fingertips.
On windy days, I let the dust gather on the windowsill. I was beside the stove with only my ears pricked up.
Listening only to the sound of the wind, I find myself sitting not at the window frame but at the edge of the wooden floor, waiting for a wind that has paused a moment. In that spot where you pricked your ears, the blue flame of the stove clung quietly.
On a hill path where the wind lifted the hem of my clothes, there was a moment a single strand slipped free from the hair in my hand. I stood there holding it between my fingertips.
While the wind paused, I saw the stall's awning hanging slack. The moment it pulled taut again in the returning wind stays with me a long time.