Birth of the Zephyr: Custer State Park, South Dakota:
December 27, 2008
Sweeping. Rolling. Wide vast magnificent- insufficient words. 50,000 gargantuan buffalo thundering. Run alongside, barely clothed. Pick one off with an arrow- Be brave. God dips hand in green mist, swoops across blue canvass slow- gentle up, gentle down. Throws purple, splattering thistle like Pollock. Air moves in a gushing wake behind his swooping hand, bending golden grass. Stand here and know what it feels like to be wind and have nothing to do but rush swift and smooth- gentle up, gentle down- subtle undulations like slow sex. Wind runs light fingers across the curve of earth’s naked back, and she shifts. Feel their breathing mingling, her heart molten and his heart flying. Know what rustle is… the shifting of sheets off sweating skin and heaving ribcages in summer wind. Know what quiet is. Hear nothing. Then, swelling up over the horizon, thunder advances… Swoop-swish like a bird flies… dive and float, hover, dive and float. Fly. Yell. Blow away. Run loose. Wail gallop blaze… reverberate against the breathing day. Pulse. Drive. Feel like wind because you have space to move like it. Chase. Race. Learn its dance and scream like it. Drop. Drop swing float fall… gold luster grass tips touch sun, drip with afternoon. Wind blows into you, vaporizes you, scatters you to nothing, leaving no time for you to miss being a solid slave to gravity. This is zephyr country. Howls silently in gust and whisper…
