Morning Wind on the Silver Grass Ridge
The wind lays the silver grass plumes down in one direction. The fingers holding my hat are still cold. Below the ridge the fog slowly parts, and through the gaps the far ridgelines show themselves one by one. The wind stops for a moment, then comes again. If I let go, the hat will fly. Still, I want to let go for a moment. I wait for that brief instant when the wind brushes my palm. The wind comes again. My hand stays holding the hat, standing just as it is.
One leaf remained where the wind had passed. The moment I turned my head, it lifted again. Leaning on a low wall, I watched it to the end. It was still early.
There was a morning when the wind chime in the window frame rattled with every gust. Listening to that sound, I once waited for the coffee to cool.