[thisislife]

There is a particular moment in the evenings, or the mornings, or truly any time at all, when the wind grows manifest. It swirls and grows thick in a maelstrom of rush, flowing briskly over hillsides and splattering on the backs of buildings. It is all feet, this wind. It runs to the battering of a hundred horse-hooves. And in an instant it transforms a forest into a battleground, ravaged by the tearing force, trees spitting themselves side to side, the rivers and mud-runs and spread soil quivering with their leaflet coverings snatched up and about. There is something else in this evening wind. It is a boar-beast charging soft tsunami. It is a swelling copperhead fountain. And it rushes forth on a thousand legs, the great oblong breadth of it shoving aside the still air, the breeze curling in its wake until its passage is indecipherable from its presence. There is a particular moment in the evenings, or any time at all, when this great thing rears itself against the clouds and charges forth, the single breath of something greater, the engulfing jet-stream rumbling rupture of it, its unibodied form splitting into small spinning faces and eddies and remnants from a long-lost haven where all used to be calm and all used to be still and the wind lay low amidst the grass, like a snake, unstirring, a silent and imperceptible fog; then it rose and reared and galloped, smooth-screaming, skyward, rushing, nearly silent against the darkening sun. This is the evening wind which rolls through the western skies.