CHASING THE SEA WIND

Beryl is barrelling through, rolling over the prairies, whipping the grass with a fervour found only in an ocean-born entity. The Sea Wind returns, a fragrant upwelling of seaweed and surf surged onto sand then swept away into worlds unknown -

this is alliterative and I will not apologise for it. What would Edgar Allen Poe do?

Poe would be revelling in the gloom of the storm. The Sea Wind flies that-a-way, racing away to the northeast, taking the clouds with her. She has turned all the leaves inside out, and the trees show us their true selves, their pale undersides usually unseen except by those intimate enough to walk under their shy branches. Now the tree flaunt their hidden surfaces unwillingly, fuzzy or glabrous, stiff or silky, exposed by the tropical storm known as Beryl.

Winds 30-40 mph; we could call them knots, but we will not, for we are inlanders and I really don’t know what that means.

The last time the Sea Wind came, my son was playing with a plastic bag tied to a string, catching the winds of Hurricane Rite in an open pasture. I would call him out to play in the wind once more, but he is now a grown man…

if I look closely enough into my heart, I can still see him out there, playing in the wind.

A gust rattles the window, flinging the dust away; the Sea Wind calls my name, and I dare not answer, lest it carry me away.

She knows me very well. The Sea Wind and I are friends… the same Sea Wind that I chased as a child, the same Sea Wind that played with my child is the same Sea Wind that calls me back to the wild -

I want to feel it again. She has been washed clean in birthing Beryl, but she is the same Sea Wind. Consistent in her capriciousness, once you meet her, you know her anywhere.

Now she is roaring away across the wide oceans of bluestem, their green seedheads dancing as she passes. The thunderhead rolls by and she turns her song to me; unable to resist, I run outside to touch the hem of her cloudy garment…

and once again I am young, chasing the Sea Wind.