Windy Summer Days

I thank you, Father, for hot summer wind, for rustling grass and whispering trees, for clouds that drift lazily. I thank you for cotton dancing white against the blue sky in wild abandon. I thank you for ripples on water and creaking tree limbs and reeds that click like metronomes, keeping time to the music of the third element as it races over hills sighs over valleys. I thank you for hair in my face and clothes that flap and whip and lash against me, for the energy that comes from gulping great gasps of cool, rushing air. I thank you for watery eyes and the sand that hisses as it's carried along the beach in a fine dust. 

I thank you for the satisfaction that comes from watching bugs, bugs that I hate, caught in a strong gust and dashed in a glorious (albeit disgusting) spray across my windshield, and that I can fall asleep with a smile knowing that there are a few fewer pointless creatures in the world, thanks to wind vs. tiny wings. 

I thank you for the gentle breeze that carries a cloud of pipe smoke curling into the night. I thank you for gusts that inspire muttered curses as the bicyclist wobbles treacherously on the shoulder of the busy road. And I thank you, Father, for the roaring wind that heralds the coming of the storm.