On the Back

In winter, the wind sings all wild and mournful on this hill. It seeks out cracks and turns our house into a tuneless flute. The wind in springtime is foreign and balmy, cowed by milder months. Summer breezes are the great gift. Flushed and sweaty, we flop onto the ground to enjoy them. Hanging clothes dry in a flash. When fall comes, the wind remembers itself again.

We love it most then. It makes us exult and run around in the dark with capes spread like wings. It makes Bird think she really can fly, and Someone warily eyes the heights of Nails as she runs around with fairy wings flapping from her back.

It makes us turn wild ourselves and attach a pirate flag to the porch when we should be already tucked into bed.



And it makes us growl at our mother when she searches for one missing.