The wind has been blowing so hard all day, on and off. Big gusts come in and toss the branches and the feathers of the chickens, and cool the skin and lift the leaves and flatten the spears of the wild lilies. It's all green and light-shot and beautiful.
And I've been quiet and domestic and I walked and hung clothes and sheets on the line and trimmed the wisteria arbor and cleaned out the hay in the chickens' nest and have bread rising and I took a nap and I feel completely mad.
Well, I'm not the only one. I know that. There seems to be something going on, at least here. The external weather like the internal, great gusts out of nowhere, perhaps a storm bearing down on us, please, let it come if it will, let it break this spell of dry holding-in, this odd and eerie sudden opening of doors and gates to invisible guests or ghosts or spirits or nothing at all but wind.
Is there such a power in the winds? Siroccos and Santa Ana's and who knows what all sorts of invisible powers flung from places far away to intrude and excite and madden? What we would call such winds here?
I have no idea but the birds seem to be more vocal than usual, the donkey next door is braying, the traffic on the highway nearby seems louder than ever, there is a sense of hurry-hurry but no destination in mind, just mindless hurry, rush, push.
Or maybe it's just me and the wind has nothing to do with it at all.
Nothing at all.
And the birds are just happy it's evening and the wind is merely a breeze of stiff proportions, the wind chimes calling out to be played, their tune just their normal tingling song, not a warning jangle at all.