A whisper. A tremble.
That fluid motion, that nothingness that wraps around. A stirring. A gust. That
gentle lift, that skimming and shaping. The branches shift and lean, the grasses
shimmer. A murmur, a movement. The leaves shiver and fold, shiver and fold. A
silence, a tension. A building up, a turning in and tightening of things. The strong
boughs creak, the earth quivers and breaths are held and everything is suspended
– a pause. Then it comes, a rush, pushing, shoving, curling out and pouring
over, whistling and slicing and curving around the edges, ripping through that
emptiness and the hollow trees and pulling and clawing, dragging pieces and
parts. A swirling, a screaming, a spectacular chaos, those mad fingers gripping
and tearing and all the fragments twisting and spinning and the branches
leaning and cracking and the dirt uplifted and everything losing its breath. A
final thrust of air, that triumphant blast while the leaves still linger, the
trees still sway, the world seems to shift and then – then just as soon a
falling, a lessening, a quieting of it all. That hollow moan of things
returning, drifting, settling. A hush, a stillness. The soft slow glow of life,
the spreading calm and swelling silence. Everything sighs, everything waits. Everything
has breath again.
