Wind in the wings

The winds are lost, running every which way: chinook, the salmon wind, bursts by in a flicker of silver and white; boreas, boring down south like winter birds, though colder and heartless; diablo and his devil breeze, or zephyr breathing lightly over the hilltops and trees, brushing the flowers. But here, tonight, it's the doldrums for me. Nothing sings with the wind, tonight; nothing dares stir, and my heart aches for motion.

Can I climb the tallest mountain and rest in the lee of the trees, listening as the music of the rain patters all around me? May I run along the riverbed of the mighty river, or leap into the sky and lounge on the clouds over the city at night, watching it sleep and rise and dream again?

The cyclones hurtle in circles; white squalls whip the sea into meringue-pie peaks of waves; the squamish hovers over the fjords like vikings of yore, in sleek, longboat gusts; the euros, full continents lost, carry the rain ever south and east. But tonight, here, along these lamp-lit streets and beneath the evergreens, I throttle time and hold my breath, waiting on eternity.