I stood on the far bluff in the raw winds today and I listened for you. The wind pulled my hair, gently at first, but then, with whipping, yanking motions, attempted to blind me with it. The weather is changing, I said, into its foldless folds. It already has, it replied, and shoved me into the void. All the while I thought of you, through the stinging and the falling, and how there is a day upon the calendar that marks the day you will be born and another for the day you will die. I cannot call you formless, shapeless, a state of nature. You are particular, static, made steel with coordinates and ph levels and the angles the bristle of your mustache grows in. It is all of one of those things.
I just don’t know what one piece of all of those pieces, all of the all is yet.
So I tumbled downward, waiting for a spike or a sharp thump to indicate the bottom of the valley, my nadir. I felt myself turning, the wind rushing through and around my hair as though I were less an enemy than a passenger upon the current, even if that current was moving ever downward. All the while I wondered if you lingered there at the landing zone, waiting for girls to splatter hard upon the pavement or if you’d laid out a ball pit or trampoline or soft, milk-sopped bread pudding to capture them. Or if I would be the first, soft landing or no. This was hopeful, that I, having been taken by the gust would be taken right to you. Despite not having heard that wind carry your call along some friendly updraft to my ears, despite there having been no sign, I pondered if the sign was just the falling itself. If I wouldn’t have gone if you wouldn’t have been there. If you were there because I had been gathered by the timely, katabatic winds. If is a loaded word, but I had time to turn, to spin, to contemplate the universe and the grandly iffy if I was going to fall right through the center and pop out the other side.
If it is cold on one side of the mountain, the mountain can make the other side warm and the warmth can call the air. Can call it Foehn and send it down, into the coldness. This is just basic thermodynamics, but it is late and the fall is far and we needn’t worry our little heads about it.
I go and go and go and I do not find your trampoline, your blanket surrounded by firefighters, your bucket of water to slow me. I don’t see you unless you are that bit of light or that gentle pull leeward or windward. I don’t see a threat to break my neck on shattered rocks or drowning oceans. Instead, I only see my hands, my arms extending, my body rising and flying itself away.