"Today again this lovely wind; the meadows plunge like waves. Trees toss their heads, the pasture turns to swells. This wind that comes midsummer. I don't know where it rises from or where it goes. We don't have enough words in English for out winds. Boreas, zephyr, Santa Ana, Squamish, Chinook. We need one here in New England. A local wind god. He comes in this time of year, an ocean-faring breeze that brings hammered blue skies, clear mornings, fringed gentians, yellow hollyhocks, a constant seething in the dark. He makes these days seem so impermanent. A rock we cling to for a little while before we've scraped into the deep."
Good stuff!!!
what shall we call the wind that rushes up the hill at "a bit of earth"? it really does have its own personality...
ReplyDelete(i love the word zephyr).