The wind never stops. It’s been blowing
for months. Picking up speed over the broad waters of the bay, blasting
the Shore with its insistent fury. It’s
unrelenting, leaving us no
peace. Like a person who can’t
shut up and just keeps yammering
on.
What is it about the wind that ruffles
my feathers? Is it the evocation of loneliness? The way it creeps
in, exposing every hollow, howling
as it does? The way it roars through, sucking
up any delusions of permanence and leaving
behind scattered limbs to be collected
from our fantasy yards?
It never ends, but it always
goes.
—Alex Joyner, 17 June 2020
You speak to/for us on the plains. Thx.
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The wind and the pandemic . . .
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