Chinook

The clouds look as stormy as I feel.
They too, rush with frantic energy.
The Chinook has come – that wild warm wind that melts the snow ferociously.
Fierceness is in the air.
The snow lays lumped about, forlorn islands of black grit.
The landscape is brackish – or what I imagine brackish would be like, had it a landscape to fill – dull, frothing, a clamorous vapor of change.
People walk quickly, heads down, clutching hats and hoods.
I look up into the sky, hair flying, and face the full whipping force.
This wind seems to have come just for me – to comfort, to mirror, to trumpet.
This breath whispers secrets in a great voice.
The many-grayed sky is the texture of lace.
It wraps me up and whisks me away.
There is no withstanding this wind.
As I round the corner it howls, battering me.
It tells me in no uncertain language that it will not let me go – its work, sculpting me, is not yet done.
It flings dust into my face and grips me with gnarled fingers.
I stand stock still.
And into the faintest pause of its fury, I take a step.
Its fingers are reduced to plucking as I wrestle the door open.
Both of us are disappointed to let each other go.

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