I’m being called again.
Some are called to wander through miles and miles of rock, brush and tree.
Others to scale the many faces of Earth.
Still others climb aboard enigmatic vessels and are relieved only when there are liquid miles below them.
I am called by the wind.
Wind. Ruffling my hair and pinking my cheeks.
Shapeshifters. Changecallers. The bringers of transformation to soil, flesh and sky.
I need to be pushed; to be reminded not to stand in the same place for too long. Reminded that nothing is permanent. It is here. The wind blows. It is gone.
My soul speaks wind. Restless. Ever-shifting. Bending, rattling, cracking. Pressing to be let in and gone before an answer.
She blows. He blows. Both and neither. My response is pure sensation – gut startling me to attention. Chest inhaling to take him in and exhaling to join her ride – anticipation like a laugh in the distance I strain to hear.
They call and I am less flesh and bone then flight and fluid.
Excess falls away; where I’m going I won’t need it.
Scouring the mess.
When they’re gone I will be less. And more.
I still haven’t gone out to meet them. What am I waiting for?
It is dark and I can’t see the trees dancing anymore but I know they are; I feel them seductively leaning in and coyly pulling away.
I peek out, into the ice and horror flicks at my chest. That’s not my wind.
I smell of it as I sit here writing to you, still feeling the remnants of illusion. I don’t fear the wind.
That’s not my wind. It calls, but today I will not reply.
That’s not my wind.