by Nancy Buonaccorsi
I like when I’m in the midst of you.
Shapes and lines skip and leap on our bedroom wall lit by our neighbor’s outdoor light. It’s 2 in the morning. Not sure what woke me, but I recognize the shadows on the wall, am stirred, and look out the window opposite to see their source. There they are, the branches of our trees and our neighbor’s trees, limbs and leaves, wild and shaking and reckless. The big wind!
I feel you, chilled air pushing in through the barely opened window, streaming from the west. Your exhale is soothing, flows into the room. I’m warm under the covers, coolness caresses my face—a whisper, a brush, remembrance.
You speak up now. I hear you, recognize your voice. It’s true the wind howls. Or maybe it’s a moan, but not unhappy, not hurt, almost a song. It builds, rises, and drops away, only to build and rise again. And again. I’m pulled up your peaks, slide into your valleys. I wonder if you’re talking to me and what you’re saying.
I know why people say ‘it rides on the wind.’ I could ride you, heading east. I would climb aboard, burrow in, hold on, hair streaming, and fly east—bump up over the mountain and glide into the glen. But I pull the covers up close to my chin and listen to you soar.
Coyote pups, in their den, nestle closer into their mother’s thick fur. I often hear the coyotes’ howls on the hills to our east and to our west. No yips and screams now; I hear only the wind. The owl scoots closer to the solid trunk, balances on its swaying limb, silent. Its hoots quiet.
Outside the window, boughs shake madly. I think it feels good to them, to allow the wind to have its way, to swing them about. Dare I slip out from my covers, step out into the night, plant my feet, raise my arms, and be swayed back and forth, a willow. To welcome the great transfer, cool coastal air. I don’t want to close my eyes and even try to sleep. Not that often do we get to see branch shadows dance with abandon across a lit wall in the middle of the night and hear a whistle like a ghost.
Then calm. You’ve moved on. Quiet. Shadows stilled. I miss your stream, your pulse, your waves of wind. Are you spent? Or are you lashing and thrashing and shaking anything at rest in your path. The trees and I, the coyote pups, the owl, drawn into your midst, are now left in your wake, doused by you.
Nancy Buonaccorsi lives in Lafayette, Northern California, and participated in Diablo Writers Workshop for five+ years, often writing about nature and travel. Nancy enjoys hiking Mt. Diablo, the East Bay hills and the Sierra. Her love of animals includes her dogs, cat, hives of honeybees and most other creatures.
Emerge Literary Journal 