Windy days

What it comes down to is you can watch the wind pretty much everywhere. Through trees, trash, hair, other peoples eyes, or the way the clouds move.

My eyes feel of shaky from sugar and caffeine and combination of city cacophony and no sleep. To the birds' singing which I would regularly praise and appreciate I'm making pleading shushing soundsshhh....shhhh.

The wind from my view today seems a shaky wind. Like the breeze can't quite catch the leaves the way it wants - it can't quite make them sway and twirl and waltz the way a whirling wind can. The leaves today seem anxious and surprised when shaken.

My son presses his precious chubby fingers against the window pane as we watch the leaves shake. It's like his whole body imitates the experience as his knees give out again and again- feet kicking the window ledge trying to find the earth up here, up high.... Here he sees the world like a bird- the tops of heads of passers by, windows, stoops and roofs, clouds closer, planes louder, stars still far.

When we come down to The ground floor and out the door, we don't feel too shaken by the wind at all. I remind myself that we are not leaves, that the wind does not determine where we will land, that a cool breeze now and then can be just the thing that eases breath. My son offers a high pitched squeal as a gust nearly takes his breath away.

I melt in his startled delight, and shush the birds no more.

A Dream Of Birds

In a dream,

there are

navy blue flecks

upon a pale

blue sky,

moving as if blown

by wind.

The dreamer 

ascends;

wings appear 

and flap

from time

to time

lifting what are 

now clearly birds 

from their nearly

weightless 

falling.

Their movements

are neither

random nor

directed.  They

are not commuting

nor are they still;

they have no

place to go, no place 

to be.

Ascending further, 

among them now, 

the view

is panoramic

and the height  

disorienting 

as the ground swirls

far down

below.

There are houses

the size of pebbles

one throws into 

a stream from

a stony bank;

trees smaller; a road

snaking, dark through

green and 

amber.

Through the

blue specks

becoming birds,

being among them,

looking through their

eyes,

the revelation came to

me-clear as their

sight must be,

to see from such heights

a mouse scuttling

toward its nest-

that this

was how you

see the world.

I was relieved

and at peace.

Here, it was

beautiful, quiet,

still, even in its

movement,

yet quite 

alone, even

amongst

companions,

even though I 

could hear the

fluttering of wings

so near as 

to ruffle feathers.

Amongst the navy blue birds

against the pale blue sky,

there were no voices,

no tears, 

no explanations-

the world was

utterly clear, yet

stiflingly 

unspeakable.

Holy 21st century

So, here we are. Alive in the twenty-first century, engaging ourselves in today only to be late for the next thing already tomorrow.  We do the best we can, but thoughts are projecting so quickly these days, and the truth is ever more elusive.  But it is indeed hidden here, here in this sphere, the blogshere, the instaphere, the freedom pages-it is certainly a new mystery. the figwine conspiracy.