Since I am only five foot-eleven I’m pretty sure I will survive the high wind. Six foot, well, that’s a dangerous limit, and everything beneath, including me, should be safe to live on in peace and keep searching for that elusive and promised happiness until the next storm. It’s all man-made promises and predictions anyhow, this length of time that’s been promised to me as I watch the wind and the hours whirl by. The ticking that seems to clock the speed of my thinking and the rate of burn of my consciousness these days hardly skips a beat in this current wind storm. I still feel pretty quiet and calm inside.
When I looked overhead this afternoon while strumming ukulele, I could see hawks not fly but coast downwind at incredible speeds, then flit a few tail feathers to pull them out of the stream of wind and send them leisurely on another course. I am so amazed that they can play in wind that could slam them into a tree top in an instant, and yet, rather than slam, they use the energy of this high-flying storm to enjoy themselves looping endlessly in up-and-down merry-go-round circles around the tips of the tallest trees I can see in the sky. In my next life that’s how I want to strum my ukulele.