Dear 20-30 mph winds,
I do admire how you started the day with such splendid gusto. I appreciate that you did not falter at the counterintuitive sunniness of the day, not in the morning, not at noon, not at dinnertime. You blew so impressively. You were the kind of wind that makes a person reconsider how she might spend her day.
For instance, 20-30 mph winds, I thought I might write today. I still might, but it's fair of you to point out: only now that you've died down. What is it about you? Sunny + 20-30 mph winds + June = the weather that diverts a soul from its purpose.
Or perhaps writing was never my soul's purpose--is that what you were getting at? I'm not sure why wind, even 20-30 mph wind, would have that kind of power: to interpellate me at the crossroads of intention and act, to seethe and whoosh and gust as if you were yourself the soul, its intentions, and the dust to which both come.
Melodramatic? Sure. So are you, though. So loud. So gusty. So diva-esque. So like a harbinger yet so coy about what is to come.
Is it rain? Snow? A precipitous drop in temperature? or maybe all three? Regardless, you have done your work. We ventured forth at 8 p.m.; the blackbirds clicked at us as we rounded the corner past a sagebrush expanse--maybe you did some damage to their nests. Maybe they were still just a little unnerved, just as we were, by the very force of your bravado. And, 20-30 mph winds, as I look back at how I whiled away the hours today, reading a little of this, crosswording a little bit of that, I am brought, finally, to this point: you've had your way with the day and you were the imperious master. But I hope that tomorrow, you'll move on to some other mountaintop.