THE WHOLE WIND

The wind in the city is not the whole wind, not the real wind, but torn up and scattered fragments of wind that have little relation to the entire living organism we hear at our house in these spring-bearing nights of wind coming toward us like a giant animal, a vast cat that comes sliding roarily across the forest tops and grabs the general landscape, tosses it about with lightning skill and deftness and is gone; you lie abed listening to it go, sinking into the silence it leaves behind where soon at the bottom you hear the depths of heaven until here comes another one and so it goes on until you tire of the game and doze off into a sleep that like the night is full of the cats of wind pouncing everywhere at once...