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Fonts: Chantelli Antiqua and Baby Boston. Journaling reads: The wind always comes at night.I love the wind; I am nonetheless nervous. Recently the wind has showered the house with halves of trees, unexpectedly. The shed in the garden has lost its roof. The beautiful arched trellis supporting exhilarations of passionflower has collapsed, taking with it half a hydrangea, one of those delicate ones with just four pale petals on trembling spokes.I love the wind: it billows the waves into smoky sputters of foam as they rush inland to shred themselves upon the dark rock. It cleans the air, washes out the soul, brings rumors of lands I will never visit. The wind curls over my skin, dances with my hair, butts against me like a demanding cat, soft yet strong. It has carved the trees along the shore into brushy shields, all their leaves facing one way: inland. The wind hisses, cajoles; threatens, yowls: the song of vast movements, the breath of the world.Tomorrow I will awaken to find what gifts it has left for me, and I will find ways to accept them.
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