Whispering Winds

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The wind whistled through the grasses, across open hills. Gathering momentum, pushing on, over the ridge.  The wind snakes around the trees, amongst the reeds, above the water, gently skimming the smooth top of the pond.  As I walk I feel the push of air, smelling the worked soil in the freshly planted fields.  The wind whispers to me to look up from my feet.  It beckons me to breathe in the smells around me.  The wind talks of history, the places it has been and where it will still travel.  Ever on, into space and time, away from me.  All I see is the grass swaying in the caress of breezes.  Chasing close behind the wind is the dust.  Coaxed from the road, the grasses, field and pastures.  The dust pushing my eyes back to my feet.  I move onward glancing ahead but keeping my eyes down, fixed on the trail at my feet.

Red Flag Warnings have been issued.  The threat of fire looms in the community.  Houses were destroyed.  Lives altered to be rebuilt again.  The smell of smoke hangs heavy in some areas.  If the wind changes direction again the stench will invade the air once more.  The old farm house on the hill is nothing but a charred skeleton.  Ditches are burned black.  ‘Not enough rain’ the farmers say to anyone that will listen.  I’m sure the souls who lost everything will agree with that statement.

Moving with more of a shuffle than a gait, I move forward.  The wind pushes at me, I pull my jacket closed.  I am weary.  Why did I leave the house?  The weight on my shoulders is only there because of my thinking.  Let it go I tell myself again.  I stop, turn to a noise, focus on a small deer.  It raises it’s head, catches my scent on the wind, and is gone.  It was a moment, no longer.  The wind betrayed me yet again…

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