The wind roars through branches with its calls like ocean.

Birds against gray stretch wings and veer left, right, and the wind takes them where the wind will. And they do not struggle.

They live this soaring dance.

I walk under rocking power lines and large, creaking branches.

I feel the fear. They could drop and end me.

Wind pushes, and rain drops and pant legs whip; feet, undergirded by gust, propel forward each step.

My raincoat presses against my ears, and the wind — it churns.

It is all I can hear.

And I am small.

In whirling, breathing power, I am a kayak in sea. Pebble on a mountain top. Bird on sky’s expanse.

Control is not my possession.

The wind fills my nose and mouth. My breathing is thank you for the gift:
I am small. He is not.

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