Wind howls from the south, a southern wind, a warm wind, an unusual February wind. It brings stories from the Gulf of Mexico. Lake Superior foams up in anticipation of more tales of shrimp, grouper, oil spills from its sister-water, its southern companion of fluidity and sand.
“Tell me more stories!” it waves, and the ice fishermen shudder, releasing silver wire into the depths. The fishermen don’t care about southern winds. Southern winds break the ice into jagged patterns and send it scurrying northwards, toward Canada’s shore.
I listen to the wind within the confines of a warm woodstove-heated cabin. A bat or squirrel or chipmunk rustles in the exterior cedar boards, making a ruckus. Last winter a pileated woodpecker pounded on our western wall, destroying it, sending shards of cedar everywhere.
The forest blinks in the late afternoon as the sun sets. The sun sets without regard to the wind’s howling stories.
I think of winter camping, sleeping in the melting mid-winter snow. How wind invades human dreams, how it infiltrates, how it scours you to the core. How you forget why you were born, why you walk this snowy earth, why you sing, why you dance, why you create joy, why you write WordPress blogs, why you Facebook, why you move to the kitchen to pour a cup of steaming tea and sit by the window, daring the wind to enter your open heart, daring it to penetrate glass, daring it to take you where you always wanted to go.