She told me once the wind was her ally. Why then did it scrape me clean of her today? One gust near drove me into the bridge wall this morning, laughing. Was it me laughing, or the wind?
Red-shouldered hawk buffeted near my house. Slabs of cardboard fifty feet in the air, and spinning: new storm coming in a season of storms. White patches flashed at wingtips: hawk spun in spirals not three feet wide, flipped, and again like a flicked wrist. She relented, let the wind carry her to the bay, gone before her afterimage faded.
Three hundred feet above the bay, a bit of paper crossed the bridge: blew in from the south and through the bridge cables, ten feet above us and out the other side. At work I wrote a note to a friend: “There is an energy in the air.” I hit “send” and the power went out. Pelted with rain on streetside: a small flash flood sweeps cigarettes toward the Pyramid. Joy and joy. And a week from now I am in the desert, where storm means more even than this.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Travel
The Neighborhood
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