An Open Letter to the Wind, You Motherfucker

What you are is crisp.  That is the word that fits, but it doesn’t do the whole job.  It can’t manage all the weight.  It needs something a little further.  Like that coolness of biting into a fresh apple.  Breaking the thin leathery skin and that gentle spray of inner juice.  It’s that.  But it is also that moment when you bite down into an ice cube.  That sudden surge of nerve endings screaming in agony from the piercing of ice, driving itself between your teeth like a ghost spike, but your taste buds close their eyes and lean into the satisfaction of the cold with unbridled enthusiasm.

That’s why this city feels less like another thing and more like a living thing.  An entity.  Because no matter what season it is, the wind is always angry.  Vicious.  Acting out like a tempestuous child.  It has its grubby hands on everything, pushing over empty cans and sending loose trash into hand-springs and somersaults.  It gives them brief bits of life, little angry spurts of acrobatics.  You pull the trees into a frenzy.  Madmen, waving their arms and trying desperately to get your attention.  To tell you something.  Or maybe not.  Maybe they have nothing to say, but just want to touch.  To reach out and grasp you, limbs waving and yearning and stretching.  The wind turns them into horny beasts.  Looking to fondle every passersby.  But we don’t look at you how you want or look back to see if you’re still watching.  We shrug off your glances, brush away your reach, and duck under your waving desperation.   Because to stop and grab your hand would be acknowledging your presence.  Taking part in your sick possession.

And because having sex with trees is illegal.

Sincerely,

Ben

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