I am the wind, Hosanna, blowing fiercely against cheek and through blue sky, wild, uncontrollable, free.
How unexpectedly this knowing arrives!
One minute you’re walking down the broken asphalt, lost in thought, and the next minute thought dissolves and the wind whips from beyond yonder pine, bright wind, cutting wind, diving against the cheek, so unexpected~~
And you know, how you know, laughing, that you’re the wind. Of course, you’re the wind! Why did you ever make up a story that you were only the shoes walking down the pavement, clip clop, clip clop?
You laugh at the wind you are, except laughter comes from somewhere else, some mouth perhaps, as the wind’s mouth is pursed and blowing its April snowy spittle.
I am the wind, Hosanna, you don’t sing, but you could sing it in whooshing language, rising syllables, rhythmic harmony.
You could sing, You are the wind, Hosanna or We are the wind, Hosanna, but the wind’s ears and your ears are inseparable and to figure it out requires thought and suddenly you’re thinking and wondering about the wind’s ears and you’ve labeled the wind, reduced it to something separate, to play with it, look at it, study it, abstract it and categorize it in the brain’s echoing endless chambers,
and now you’re back to feet moving clip clop, clip clop, down the broken asphalt with a memory of windsong in your heart. You’re so close, you’re so close, you’ve almost blown yourself away.